


Fussin’ Over Scars on my Soul

by patchworkgargoyle



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Disaster, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions of addiction, Set in Canada, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, but it’s all in the past it’s all just good good drama, i will draw it out as long as i can, light and fluffy, maybe some horse escapades, mentions of gang involvement, solely based on the TV series sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchworkgargoyle/pseuds/patchworkgargoyle
Summary: Jaskier is recovering from a few bad life choices. Geralt rescues mistreated farm animals and runs a ranch while parenting his daughter, Ciri. Yennifer decides to meddle a little.***He cuts quite the figure, leaning ever so casually in the little kitchen. The hair at his temples is pulled back from his face, revealing more of that sharp, stubble-covered jaw. Of course Yennifer would know a handsome hermit. Honestly. He looks like he could wear armour and be right at home romping across a medieval countryside. Geralt isn’t Jaskier’s usual type, but he’s the definition of easy on the eyes.He may not be as well-muscled as his host, but he can do a few things! He has, in fact, successfully built IKEA furniture, by himself, and it never collapsed. “I will earn my stay, and who knows, maybe you’ll find me a capable farm hand,” he retorts, flicking his hair out of his face.One of Geralt’s eyebrows slowly raises, doubtful. “Hm,” is all he provides in response.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 712
Kudos: 3107
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Keep Your Head Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time in a long time I’ve written fic, please bear with me. Constructive criticism is heartily welcomed. Un-beta’d, and wholly based on the TV series. I’ll play the games someday maybe.
> 
> Title is from Infinitesimal by Mother Mother!
> 
> So, uh, here’s some awkward men trying to get along with each other under very shaky pretences? And welcome to British Columbia, Canada, because I know very little about U.S. ranch land but I know enough about B.C. ranch land to get by!

Geralt stands in the mild gloom of Roach’s stall, brushing her down and watching the dust and fur fly and catch in the stray sun beams leaking through the stable window, when he hears the phone ring. Its shrill sound cuts through the calm and he sighs, but makes no move to answer it. Why hadn’t he disconnected it yet? He comes out here to work and find some peace and quiet, not answer calls. Not that there were many, thankfully.

He lets it ring until either the person hung up, or Ciri picked up the house phone. He hoped it was the former. Roach’s flank twitches, so he resumes his ministrations. Other than the various nickering and tail-swishing of the other animals, it’s blessedly quiet. A perfect day.

“Dad?”

Geralt sighs again. “Here,” he replies, knowing his daughter would realize exactly which stall “here” was.

Ciri skips up to Roach’s stall with the phone in her hand. “It’s Yennefer on the phone, she has a weird question for you,” she says, offering the phone to him.

“Thank you,” he smiles at her, but it fades as soon as the receiver reaches his ear. “Yen.”

“Hello dear Geralt. How are you?” Yennefer asks. He can almost hear the satisfaction dripping from her voice, knowing she’s interrupted his day. He rubs at his forehead with his free hand, trying to massage his frown-lines away.

“I’m fine. What do you want?”

Her tongue clicks disapprovingly. “Straight to the point, of course. You know, your daughter and I had a lovely chat. She much better at this than you are.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify this with an answer.

“Alright, have it your way. I have an... acquaintance who is in need of a place to stay, away from the city. Just for a while. He’s had a rough time and simply needs a breather. I figured you might understand?”

It was Yennefer who put him on the path to the ranch, technically, so yes, he did understand. But there was more she was hiding from him.

“What did he do?”

“He’s just coming out of rehab and still needs to get some things in order. Get his bearings, if you will.”

“I don’t want an addict around Ciri,” he says gruffly, ignoring Ciri’s pout.

His daughter firmly puts her hands on her hips. “I’m old enough! He needs a good place to stay!”

He ignores her, but hears Yen laugh over the phone. “You told her before asking me.”

“Yes, I thought she could help me wear you down. And he’s not an addict anymore. Jaskier is in recovery, but he needs somewhere away from his bad influences so he can get his feet back under himself. I’ll be honest, I find him obnoxious and you will too. But you came to my mind when I heard the story.”

“I’m flattered,” Geralt said, his rough voice flat. He did have an extra room. Ciri had tried to convince him to make it an office for the ranch, but it remains a dusty, empty bedroom. But having a strange man in the house wasn’t his idea of fun. “How do you know him, anyway? One of your movie star friends?”

“We just run in the same circles. He’s actually a singer, would’ve skyrocketed to the top if it hadn’t been for a few bad apples in his life.”

“Hm.”

“He also kept me from making a ‘bad connection,’ let’s say. So I owe him a little. Come on, Geralt, you need a bit of life in that lonely little ranch of yours.”

He glanced over at Ciri, who had her hands clasped together under her chin, pouting and silently pleading. She was just like him, wanting to take in strays. Only his sympathy didn’t extend beyond animals.

“I’ll l think about it,” he said finally. Ciri bounced up and down, cheering.

“Great! We’ll be there in a week. See you soon!” Yennefer hung up before he could stop sputtering in protest. He jabbed his thumb into the end button with a growl. Stuffing the phone in his pocket, he started gathering the grooming tools.

“We can at least let him help, dad! Summer’s coming and we never have enough help,” Ciri said as she leaned over the stall door, “I’ve even heard his songs, he’s really good! Maybe he can play for us.”

Geralt only grunted in response. Ciri and Yennefer conspire against him too often. He couldn’t help but worry whether the man was safe to have around. But when Yen sets her mind to something, it happens.

“So long as he keeps out of the way and does as he’s told. Soon as I feel he’s a threat, he’s gone.”

“Yeah, okay dad.”

Roach bumps his shoulder with her nose and he gives her neck a scratch. “See you later, girl.” He swings the door open, Ciri still holding on and willingly swinging with it, and lets her close it behind them. She babbles on excitedly about their impending guest and he follows silently. At least she’s happy, he thinks. This Jaskier had better not fuck it up.

***

Turns out they were driving all the way to the ranch Yennefer had talked about. “I refuse to be seen in the dingy little airports they have up there. Very much not my style,” she had said. So it was a seven hour drive, along two-lane highways nestled between the most bucolic Canadian scenery Jaskier had ever seen. Sharp mountains capped with white snow, clothed in evergreens, were shrouded by wispy clouds. Typical.

It also involved sheer cliffs both up and down, and avalanche signs that doubled as rockslide signs. This was not a part of the province he’d ever deigned to explore. Truthfully, he never went past Vancouver unless he was flying to Toronto or LA. A few times he felt like a child, peering out from the tinted windows of Yennefer’s fancy car at the rising hills and mountains, and down at the rapid-filled rivers too far below. There were towns - or possibly villages - tucked into the mountainside that were so tiny that he could blink and miss them. 

The drive was awkward to say the least. He and Yennefer were not the best of pals, though at the very least he could catch up on the latest gossip of their social circles. He’d missed out on much, though he was finding he didn’t mind. He hadn’t had a single visitor in the year he was in the treatment centre. It was likely for the better.

Jaskier tried to pry some more information out of his escort, about where they were going and with whom he was staying. This Geralt, from Yennefer’s description of him, seemed a wolf of a man, if her descriptions of his stature were to be believed. Tall, broad, and buff, and exhaustingly grumpy.

“You’ll be lucky to pull a full sentence from him in however long you’ll be staying there,” she admits.

“So, not a terribly verbose man,” he said, shrugging, “That’s fine, maybe some of my city charms will loosen him up.” He grinned.

Yennefer snorted, which still managed to be a charming noise from her. “As loose as a steel trap.”

“Oh well. It’ll only be a month or two, then I’ll be out of his hair. Shouldn’t take too long to find a place to live. In Vancouver. Or find another agent. Right?” Jaskier said, but his laughter had a nervous edge. There was only so long you could put your career on hold before people moved onto the next big thing. He sighed.

Awkwardly, she patted his knee, three very brief and not terribly comforting taps. “Right. You’ll get there.” Yennefer cleared her throat and turned to look out the window.

He lets his head rest against the window with a light thunk. Please don’t let me fuck this up, he begs nothing in particular.

***

Ciri is the first one to spot the car coming up the long, snaking driveway. Geralt sees the telltale black car, as discreet as a brick through a window, usually so sleek but now coated in splattered bugs and dust, and smirks to himself. But the dread he’d been feeling for the past week surges in his chest. Ciri leaps from the couch, but stops in the hall just before the door and looks back at him.

“It’ll be okay, dad, really,” she says firmly, with a wide, kind smile. Backtracking, she guides her dad off the couch and leads him out the door and onto the porch, his arm limp in her small grip as he trudges after her.

Geralt leans against the porch post, arms crossed, and watches as Yennefer’s driver finally pulls to a stop. The wind gently tugs the cloud of dust past the car, giving it another coating for good measure. The chrome doesn’t look quite so chrome-y. Serves her right for bringing some posh thing to the Interior.

The driver exits and opens Yen’s door, and she gets out gracefully, looking not at all like she’d been in a car for too many hours. The door opposite opens without help. A shorter, lanky man gets out, less elegantly. He nearly trips, in fact, but catches himself on the door before making a complete fool of himself.

First thing Geralt notices is the man’s face, his cheeks just a bit too hollow, bags under his eyes. But he’s grinning like he meant to trip and primly adjusts his slightly rumpled shirt, squinting into the sunlight. There’s a tick in his jaw muscle when he glances Geralt’s way. Clearly nervous. Good.

“Geralt, dear, how very kind of you to greet us!” Yen walks up, arms outstretched, and clasps him by the shoulders.

“Yen-“ she gives his left cheek a kiss, “Please don’t-“ then his right. Then pats him on the cheek before turning to his daughter.

“Hello Yennefer!” she says, hands clasped behind her back.

“Hello Cirilla, it’s good to see you,” she brushes a strand of hair from her face.

Meanwhile, the man is being handed his bags from the trunk by the driver; a large rolling suitcase and a guitar case.

“Everyone, this is Jaskier, your guest,” Yen announces, pulling him up to her side.

He gives a lopsided smile. “Hello! It’s a pleasure. Let me say, your house is very-“ He pauses, giving the ranch house another look, “Quaint.” Jaskier steps up to Geralt and offers his hand. “You must be Geralt, Yennefer has told me much about you.”

Geralt looks down at the hand and blinks. Ciri lightly kicks him. He takes Jaskier’s hand and gives it one shake before releasing it. “I’ll show you your room,” he says, and turns.

“You’re feeling very loquacious today, Geralt,” Yen teases, earning a long-suffering look from her target.

“Don’t mind my dad, he doesn’t get out much,” Ciri says, “I’m Cirilla, it’s nice to meet you Jaskier!” She holds out her hand and Jaskier gives it a good shake.

“Thank you, it’s lovely to meet you too,” he says, beaming.

Geralt leads Jaskier inside, to the room set aside for him. He and Ciri had dusted and changed the bedsheets, but otherwise the plain room was no different. Bare white walls made the dark wood of the old bed set stand out, but the quilt on the bed, a royal blue patterned with dancing golden lions, made it look less sterile.

“I should have brought some posters,” Jaskier says, glancing at Geralt. He doesn’t respond, though he thinks that perhaps a picture or two would have been more welcoming. Before he can reply, Jaskier hastily continues, “But it looks very cozy. Thank you very much for letting me stay, I know it must be a great inconvenience.”

“It’s fine,” he responds, and retreats back to the living room where Yen and Ciri are chatting on the couch. Sitting with a sigh in his favourite chair, he gives Yen an exasperated look, which she pointedly ignores.

“How’s school, Ciri? Are you making any summer break plans with your friends?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t have any plans. Just helping with the ranch since we get so busy.”

“Well that’s no fun.”

“Dad pays me for it, and it is kinda fun sometimes, so it’s okay.”

Yen crooks an eyebrow at him. “It’s ‘okay’?” she says.

He shrugs. 

Jaskier emerges from the other end of the house. Realizing there’s no extra chair, he slowly leans against the wall, as if worried it will collapse on him. Geralt catches him looking his way, anxious, but makes nothing of it. 

“All settled in?” Yen asks.

Jaskier nods, “My worldly belongings are stashed away.”

“Good, good.” She says.

The room is quiet.

Yennefer stands. “I should set off, then. Sorry for the short stay, but I have some photo shoots scheduled along the drive back.”

Their guest tenses. “Oh, so soon?” his voice rises an octave.

“She never stays long,” Geralt says as he stands too, “Good to see you.”

“You too, Geralt. Take care, I’ll check in to make sure you haven’t killed each other,” she teases, once again kissing his cheeks and smirking at his clear discomfort. “Keep these two in line for me, Ciri.”

“Yes ma’am!” Ciri mock-salutes, then jumps up to give her a hug. 

Patting him on the shoulder, Yen tells Jaskier, “You’ll fit in before you know it, but call me if you need.”

“Of course, thank you Yennefer, I appreciate your help,” he squeezes her hand, and she’s off through the door.

They can hear the car start up and drive off in the second awkward silence of the day.

Geralt clears his throat. “Lunch?”

“Yes please!” Ciri says, then grabs Jaskier to lead him to the kitchen. “C’mon, Dad makes a really good grilled cheese sandwich.”

***

The man was both offensively handsome and downright terrifying. Yennefer had neglected to describe just how tall, broad, and buff Geralt was. And his scowl nearly made him run back to Yennefer’s car. His black t-shirt seemed like it could bust at any movement, and his bootcut jeans were cruelly tight. Jaskier was scared to so much as cough lest he get caught in Geralt’s yellow-eyed glare. Also, his eyes are yellow! Or more like gold, but still. He felt that words like “striking” and “chiseled” were both too cliche and very befitting.

His daughter was as charming as he was intimidating, though, so Geralt must be doing something right. She led him to their kitchen table while Geralt went about gathering the grilled cheese sandwich supplies.

“We weren’t sure what kinds of food you liked, so we didn’t go get groceries yet. You can come with us when we go tomorrow,” she stated, nodding her head definitively.

“That sounds like an adventure I’d be up for,” Jaskier said. 

Ciri started telling him about the twenty minute drive into town, and how small the town was, asking him if he’d ever been to a small town. He listened and answered, and it was probably the longest non-therapy-related conversation he’d had in some time. Meanwhile, Geralt quietly assembled and grilled the sandwiches. Sometimes his lips would twitch up in a faint smile at something Ciri said, but otherwise he made no comments. Jaskier couldn’t tell if he was tense, or if this was just the normal household routine.

At a pause in Ciri’s exposition, he asks Geralt, “What about this ranch of yours? I tried to look you up, but I couldn’t find a website.”

“There isn’t one.” Geralt pauses as he flips a sandwich, then seems to realize he should continue speaking. “I rescue farm animals. Mostly horses.”

“We also have some pigs, and a cow, and some chickens!” Ciri supplies.

“Quite the menagerie. Sounds like it would keep you busy.”

Geralt hums in agreement.

“We also do trail rides in the summer to help pay for upkeep. Sometimes we board people’s horses too,” Ciri says, “Dad leads the rides because he knows the trails super well.“

“Maybe I could learn to ride a horse while I’m here,” he jokes, but Geralt, looking incongruous with the rustic country decor, nods.

“Not a bad idea. You can help out while you’re here.” He bites into his grilled cheese while leaning on the counter, staring at Jaskier with an expectant expression. “Unless you’d rather not.”

He cuts quite the figure, leaning ever so casually in the little kitchen. The hair at his temples is pulled back from his face, revealing more of that sharp, stubble-covered jaw. Of course Yennefer would know a handsome hermit. Honestly. He looks like he could wear armour and be right at home romping across a medieval countryside. Geralt isn’t Jaskier’s usual type, but he’s the definition of easy on the eyes.

Jaskier’s pride winces. He may not be as well-muscled as his host, but he can do a few things! He has, in fact, successfully built IKEA furniture, by himself, and it never collapsed. “I will earn my stay, and who knows, maybe you’ll find me a capable farm hand,” he retorts, flicking his hair out of his face.

One of Geralt’s eyebrows slowly raises, doubtful. “Hm,” is all he provides in response.

“We’ll teach you, Jaskier, don’t worry.” Ciri pats his hand, and he does find it reassuring. 

*** 

Geralt excuses himself after lunch. He needs a break from Ciri and Jaskier’s endless chatter and busies himself with mucking out the stable. The man is too wordy. But Ciri has taken a shine to him, so he can’t be too bad. Just obnoxious, like Yen said. He still hadn’t technically agreed to this, but it was too late now. His hope that Jaskier would have little to no interest in helping with farm work was gone, so there goes his peace.

One of the horses, Cedar, would make a decent beginner’s horse. He was calm and gentle, easy to lead. Great for smaller kids. Geralt made a note to call the farrier later.

It was different to watch Ciri talking with their guest. She was a great deal chattier than himself, yes, but he realized he never really saw her talk to other people. The kids in town tended to ignore her, but she paid them no mind either. Was that normal? She never mentions friends.

“Hm,” he hummed aloud. He hoped she wasn’t annoying the poor man. He was annoying too, though, so maybe he won’t mind. With a shrug, he resumes his dirty work.

***

Ciri had told Jaskier all the names of all the animals on the ranch by the time Geralt came back and announced she had homework to finish. By then, the sun was setting behind the house, the clouds tinted pink against the yellowing sky.

She pouted but walked to her room, and Jaskier hid his chuckle over her scowl. She did look a little like her father on occasion, though her blonde hair was much warmer, and her eyes grey. Even Geralt’s genetics seemed to go to extremes, since he surely wasn’t old enough for such white hair. Which was currently bedecked in straw.

“You have a little-“ Jaskier pointed at his own hair, mimed delicately pulling something from it.

Geralt carelessly ran his fingers through his long hair, ripping out the hay. “I’ll shower. Help yourself to what you need,” he said, and with that, Jaskier was left alone.

For a moment he tapped out a little rhythm on the table, lips pursed, as he tried to figure out what to do. Being left to his own devices in a stranger’s house was the worst, in his humble opinion. So he made his way back to his own room, keeping the door open just a crack in case dinner was announced.

The little room really was plain. It could use a desk, maybe. A plant or two. Definitely some wall decor. He didn’t want to stick around long enough to accumulate those things, though. Geralt tolerated him, but he felt that might not last long. So long as he can keep busy and out of the way, he’ll be okay. For now, he has to put up with yet another plain room.

Jaskier realizes he’s rubbing the crook of his elbow, and lunges for his guitar. A distraction is what he needs. 

He starts by plucking out a few random chords, letting the growing ache in his chest ease as he fiddles, seeing if anything strikes his fancy. Then a familiar combination comes along, and he lets it sweep him away, singing softly as his fingers pick at the steel strings.

“I spent my time watchin’  
The spaces that had grown between us  
And I cut my mind on second best  
Or the scars that come from the greenness...”

He strummed away, unaware that he was being listened to through the crack in the door.


	2. Livin’ Like Some Country Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt slowly realizes he maybe, kinda likes Jaskier. Jaskier is Thirsty. Ciri is connecting the dots. Not much else happens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear we’ll get to the animals next chapter, which I plan to post in 3-4 days!  
> And thank you all So Much for your super kind comments! You are all lovely and really encouraging and helpful. And all the kudos this fic has gotten are astounding.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this little update!

Geralt woke slowly in the dim light of his bedroom. Something smelled great, but he didn’t want to open his eyes yet. There were no rides scheduled for the day. Dara, a kid from Ciri’s school, was coming by to help again, so the animals were likely already let out to the pasture. He pried open a single eyelid to confirm. His clock read 7:03. Yep, the kid should be here. Getting up wasn’t urgent.

There was a knock on his door. A groan rumbled out of his chest.

“Dad?” Ciri poked her head through the door, “Dad, Jaskier made waffles.”

Waffles, huh?

“M’kay,” was his faint reply, and he heard Ciri laugh as she shut his door again.

With another groan, he sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Waking up so late really throws off his schedule, but it was welcomed sometimes. He slips into a t-shirt and pajama pants and waddles down the hall to the kitchen where Jaskier is actually making waffles.

“G’morning, dad!” Ciri says, much louder than before.

Jaskier’s head twists, and his whole body with it. He seems too elastic. “Hello! Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says with a grin.

Geralt grunts. “Didn’t know we had a waffle iron,” he says, seating himself at the table. He yawns then, hard enough to shake his shoulders, and catches a twitch of a smile from their guest.

“Neither did Ciri, but I found it buried behind your pots and pans while I tried to think of what to make for breakfast.”

“Y’didn’t have to,” Geralt pauses, “Make breakfast.”

“It’s my pleasure, I did say I’d earn my keep after all.” Jaskier then opens the waffle iron, releasing a fresh, sweet whiff of baking waffles, and gently coaxes them off the iron.

Geralt hums. He’s also surprised they had the ingredients for waffles, but keeps that to himself. Instead, he comes to realize he’s missing something, and stands again.

Jaskier is right in front of the coffee maker, of course, but conveniently the man slides out of the way surprisingly quickly as soon as he notices Geralt approaching. It’s still a tight squeeze in the corner of the little kitchen, but he needs coffee. Soon. He misses the tenseness in Jaskier’s shoulders as he doles out enough coffee grounds for himself.

Glancing at Jaskier, he asks, “Coffee?”

Swallowing, their guest nods. “Yes, um, please, that would be lovely.”

He hums in acknowledgement, adds another scoop to the coffee maker’s chamber, fills the machine with water, and sets it to percolate. When he turns back to the table, Ciri is looking curiously at Jaskier. She sees him quirk an eyebrow her way, but she just shrugs, smiling. She had better not be getting a crush. Jaskier is still basically a stranger, no matter how many waffles he makes.

Jaskier eventually sets down a mountain of waffles, and trills, “Order up!”

Ciri laughs and they all dig in. Geralt grabs a bit of butter while Jaskier and Ciri slather theirs in maple syrup. 

“So I hear a trip to town is in order?” Jaskier says after a few bites.

Geralt nods, not wanting to pause his meal.

“It’s not one of the big trips,” Ciri supplies, “Sometimes we have to drive a few hours to Costco in the next city.”

“Today will just be a quick jaunt, then. When we drove through yesterday there certainly didn’t seem like much in town.”

“There is a movie theatre! And a skating rink! And we finally got a bookstore again.”

Jaskier nodded thoughtfully. “Some very admirable qualities for a town.” Ciri chuckled, and Geralt felt a little smile tug at his lips. This guy wasn’t so bad, he figured. Still too chatty. He preferred a silent morning, himself, but at least Ciri was happy.

She and Jaskier had finished eating some time ago, and were talking about one thing or another. Finishing his fifth waffle, Geralt says, “We’ll go in a minute, go get ready.”

“Yessir,” Jaskier teased, a smirk on his face, and the pair stood, then marched away giggling. Geralt sighed.

***

Jaskier waited by the door, fussing with his satchel and trying to not stare at Geralt, who was cleaning up breakfast’s mess in the kitchen. His offer of help had been refused with a single “No,” so he kept to himself in the foyer. 

It was quite unfair that Geralt looked great while rocking a double denim look. Blue jeans, blue jean jacket lined with sheepskin, and a classic plaid shirt to complete the look. Truly unfair. And completely inappropriate for the weather. He almost expected to find a cowboy hat had materialized on top of his head. At least his black boots were sensible, and not the fancy embroidered leather of cowboy boots. 

His brow furrowed as he definitely did not stare at his host. He would not look good in a cowboy hat.

Ciri cleared her throat and Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin, yelping.

“Are you okay?” she asked, head tilted slightly.

Geralt turned to look at him quizzically, and Jaskier ignores the flustered, fluttery feeling in his chest. Rubbing the back of his neck, he nods, letting out a much too high, “Mm-hm!”

He really needs to calm down.

Geralt walks over and grabs his keys off of a hook behind Jaskier’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says, and jerks his chin at the door.

“Yup!” Jaskier practically lunges for the handle and lets himself out.

The drive was awkward, but not because of unfortunate silences. Ohh no. The vehicle was an old Ford, a clearly well-cared-for reminder of the 70’s in a deep emerald green. Geralt’s truck also only had one short bench seat that all three of them had to squeeze on to. Ciri was the unfortunate middle-seater, being the smallest, and Jaskier thanked his parents’ genetics for his wiry frame. Geralt filled so much space, however, not just with bulk but his sheer presence alone. Both men kept their eyes firmly on the road.

Ciri, meanwhile, filled Jaskier in on the surrounding countryside as it whizzed by. This field was Mrs. Antonov’s, that farm belonged to the Martinses, that’s where her dad scared off a pack of coyotes-

“Wait, what?” he interrupted, “A pack of coyotes? You’re joking.”

“Nope, they tried to surround us when we were testing out the trail and dad scared them off.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide, jaw slack, as he swung around to look at Geralt. “No.”

The man under Jaskier’s scrutiny looked like he was fighting back embarrassment, but said, “Yep.”

“With like a branch and a lot of yelling,” Ciri said, “It was pretty scary.”

He could absolutely imagine that Geralt, weilding a whole tree branch and shouting, would be enough to scare off coyotes. “I’ll bet it was, but how very heroic of your dad,” he says.

“Yeah, he’s a good hero.”

Geralt… blushes? There is a faint rosiness growing over his pale cheeks, and he seems to be wincing, lips pursed. Jaskier guesses that if he had the option to exit the vehicle, he would do so posthaste. Not a man used to compliments, it seems. He has to bite back a grin at poor Geralt’s expense. Ciri returns to explaining what patch of land belongs to who, but Jaskier still notices the silent sigh of relief from their driver when the topic shifts away from him again. Clearly he needs a hype man, if only for his own confidence’s sake.

***

The old truck pulls into the parking lot of a grocery store that looks to be from the same era as itself. It had never been updated, and whenever rumours spread about it getting fixed up, locals would protest. Geralt appreciated its stubborn, worn charm and the wall of the local ranch brands right inside the entrance. He preferred it over the other grocery store, which was a bit newer and less unique.

He grabs a cart on their way in, watching Jaskier take in the brands. There’s close to 100 of them, all authentic, and you can tell how long they’ve been on the wall by how aged the wooden blocks look. But Ciri moves on quickly, so Geralt tugs Jaskier further into the store and out of everyone else’s way.

“Toto, we’re not in Vancouver anymore,” Jaskier jokes, pulling a chuckle from Geralt.

Ciri leads the two men through the aisles, Geralt pulling down what they need. Cereal, bread, more flour, sugar, eggs, milk. Jaskier draws some looks, but he just waves with a roguish grin and a “How do you do?” Somehow he manages to get himself into a conversation, and Geralt stands nearby, arms crossed, waiting for the musician to get on with it. Very few people will stop to chat with him and Ciri, and he preferred it that way. His business was his.

Jaskier finally trotted up, looking pleased. “What a nice couple! They welcomed me to the town and everything, something you neglected to do, I might add.”

Geralt gave him a blank look, not wanting to be subjected to more teasing. Being called a “hero” was enough for one day.

“Oh, it’s okay Geralt. I forgive your lapse in manners,” Jaskier continues, patting him on the arm. 

He rolls his eyes and pushes the cart in the direction he saw Ciri go, and pays no mind to the lingering feeling on his bicep. Jaskier is too friendly, too open. He isn’t used to that from anyone but his daughter. It makes him feel off-balance and on guard, but he also finds he can’t help but warm up a little to the man. Wonder what drove him into rehab, he thinks, but that’s a question he won’t ask. Some things don’t need to be known.

The group reconvenes near the tills to make sure they have what they need. Geralt catches Jaskier frowning, though.

“What?”

“Not a lot of vegetables, are there?” he replies, eyeing the cart.

Geralt also looks at the contents of their haul. Jaskier is right, he realizes. There are some frozen dinners and cans of soup, sandwich makings and lots of snacks for Ciri’s lunches, and the basics. Things that last or get used up quickly.

“Vegetables don’t last,” he says, expecting Jaskier to understand.

Instead he looks scandalized.

“Not if you don’t use them! Good god, you do need a hand. Here,” Jaskier all but pushes Geralt away from the cart and briskly steers it towards the fresh food section. All he can do is stand, palms to the ceiling, in shock. That was his cart.

He sullenly stomps off after the man, following the mop of brown hair bobbing between people. Ciri grabs his hand and he slows his pace out of habit, and looks down at her. She clearly finds it funny.

“I didn’t think anyone but Yennefer could push you around,” she says. He can only grunt.

***

With the last bag of groceries emptied into the fridge, Jaskier collapses onto the couch with a satisfied sigh. He feels, personally, that’s he’s done this little family some good today. Last night’s dinner of spaghetti with sauce from a jar makes a lot of sense now. He gets the whole busy ranch thing, but really.

To his surprise, Geralt sits down in the chair across from him, looking a little frayed. The hair tie holding back some of his hair has let loose some of the silvery strands, and his jaw is clenched somewhat. Jaskier gets the feeling he should give him a second to gather his words.

“I’m too busy or tired to cook most days. Ciri doesn’t know how.” The admission takes some of the tension from Geralt, but it remains in his face. Is he disappointed in himself? Jaskier remembers the days when all he could do between recording and partying was order in, but at least he had more food options that way. Out here, they made do with what they had, which meant, probably, many frozen entrees.

“So long as I’m here, I’ll lend a hand. I know my way around a frying pan and a slow cooker,” he says, winking. “Maybe I can show you both a thing for two.”

“I… would be very grateful,” Geralt says seriously. The gravity he exudes is almost humbling, but he visibly relaxes into the chair and Jaskier’s heart does a tiny celebratory dance. 

“In return for cooking lessons, you can teach me how to ride a horse?” he suggests.

“We can start after the farrier comes tomorrow.”

Well, he has no idea what that is, but Jaskier nods anyway. He’s always been curious about horses, having never really been close to one before. He didn’t understand the obsession some people seemed to experience through middle school, but he may as well try it out during his stay. 

“As long as I don’t get bucked off and crushed beneath some deadly hooves, I’m game.”

Geralt snorts. “Come out to the barn tomorrow, when you’re ready.” The tall man stands back up and stretches, completely oblivious to Jaskier’s eyes raking down his body. A patch of skin peeks through the bottom of the plaid shirt, pale and a little hairy. Entirely, completely unfair.

“I need to check on things. Help yourself to,” Geralt pauses, “whatever you need.”

Jaskier blinks a few times to redirect his brain. “Thank you, Geralt,” he says with a smile and a nod. The other man just hums and heads outside.

He realizes that’s probably the most words Geralt has said in his presence. It feels as though he’s beginning to trust him. Maybe I was a little bit right about my “city charms,” he thinks with a self-satisfied smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Kerosene from Miranda Lambert.
> 
> Would anyone be interested in a playlist?


	3. Your Trojan’s in my Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding over horses ensues!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for so many kind comments! They honestly have me, like, squeeing with happiness. Never though I’d use that word again, but here we are. ;D
> 
> Chapter titles is from Trojans by Atlas Genius!
> 
> And the playlist link will be at the end of the chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!

Jaskier wakes the next morning to the chiming of his phone’s alarm. He’d set it for 7, thinking he would get up and make everyone breakfast again. Maybe pancakes this time, with fluffy scrambled eggs. 

He stretches languidly in his bed before sitting up and glances out the window. A trail of dust had been kicked up along the driveway, so he went to get a better look. A white pickup had driven straight up to the barn, and it looked like Geralt was already awake. He watched as he approached the truck, chatted briefly with the man who was strapping on a tool belt laden with, well, tools, and the two went into the barn together. Guess that’s whomever a farrier is, he thinks.

He’s disappointed by the fact that Geralt has probably eaten already, but maybe Ciri would like something. Jaskier gets dressed, curious as to what he should wear to ride a horse. Jeans, likely. A shirt, potentially optional. He goes for a fitted white tee, the one shirt he cared the least about. Excited to get started, he struts out, but when he opens his door, he sees that Ciri’s is open too, and she’s nowhere to be seen. The house is quiet.

Oh, right, it’s Monday. I forgot about school, he remembers. 

Skipping the pancakes, he just whips up the scrambled eggs for himself. Sitting alone at the table was odd, but not unwelcome. He loved chatting with Ciri, and watching Geralt’s occasional, half-hidden smiles. He was truly fond of his daughter, it was touching. Jaskier wished he’d felt that himself when he was her age. But having a moment to himself was also nice, when it wasn’t dark out. The lack of Wi-Fi was mildly concerning, rendering his phone little more than a brick with the lack of cell towers about, but maybe he can help Geralt set that up sometime. Did he even have a computer?

Jaskier washes his dishes, but anxiety is growing within him. What if he does get kicked by the horse? What if he falls off and makes a fool of himself and Geralt decides he’s not worth the effort? Do horses bite? Oh no.

One deep, held breath in. One long breath out. He repeats it a few more times until his heart stops thundering away, then stays to himself, “Okay, let’s go.”

***

Henry is chatting away to Geralt as he tends to the last horse, requiring nothing but the occasional affirmation that he’s listening. Buttercup, the horse, keeps tossing his sandy mane and snorting, but doesn’t yank his foot away. Buttercup is always a bit of a dandy, and has kicked out at Henry before, so Geralt stands at his head, keeping him calm. He always marvels at how soft horses’ noses are, softer than velvet. So long as Geralt keeps scratching the palomino, Buttercup behaves well enough, and they get through the ordeal without any drama.

Something catches Geralt’s eye as Henry starts packing up. Turning, he sees Jaskier hesitantly walking up to the open stall, his exaggerated steps muffled by the hay on the ground. His plain shirt is a shock in contrast to his usual patterned, colourful button-downs, and hangs just a bit too loosely. It’s a practical choice, though his brow pulls down in a frown.

“Hello!” Jaskier says, sticking to the opposite wall and waving. He leans to get a better look inside the stall at the horse. “Is it, uh, alright if I’m here? Not going to cause any horse panic?”

Geralt snorts. “No, Jaskier, it’s fine.”

“Well hello!” Henry says, straightening, “You must be the guest everyone is talking about!”

“Everyone?” Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at Geralt, who shrugs. It was bound to happen after yesterday. News gets around.

Henry goes and shakes Jaskier’s hand. “It’s good to see these two with some company. See you around, then!” He waves to them both and makes his way back to his truck.

Buttercup nudges Geralt in the shoulder. “Oh,” he says, and takes half a carrot out of a bucket he’d set on the low wall of the stall. With the horse satisfied, he leaves the stall with the bucket and latches the door shut.

“You seem very in your element, there. And you make the horse seem not quite so… tall.” Jaskier says, now able to walk up to the stall, still with a cautious edge. “Though getting closer really shuts down that illusion. My god, these beasts are big.”

Buttercup snorts and tosses his head and Jaskier flinches back a bit.

“He’s just worked up. Doesn’t like being manhandled.”

“I guess that’s understandable.” Jaskier moves even closer, now standing beside Geralt at the door, watching Buttercup eat some hay. He’s moved straight into a beam of early morning sunlight from the window, bringing a deep honey-gold edge to his brown hair and lighting up his blue eyes to almost silver. There’s a hint of freckles over his nose.

Oh, Geralt thinks, blinking.

He walks away to the other exit of the stable.

Jaskier jogs along after him. “So, when does my cowboy training begin?”

He clears his throat, not turning to the other man as he says, “Right now. Come on.” He leads Jaskier out the opposite side of the stable from where he came - stopping at Roach’s stall to give her a carrot too - towards the white-fenced paddock. Cedar is standing near the gate, ears pricked, already tacked up. Geralt opens the gate some to let Jaskier in.

He doesn’t enter, instead stopping a few feet away. “Does it have to be, like, right now? I figured there would be some PowerPoint slides, maybe. Or charts, perhaps?” He’s wringing his hands together and staring at the sorrel horse, who simply bends his head down to try and grab some grass from the other side of the fence.

“No slides or charts. You just have to do it.” Geralt gestures with his hand, hoping he’ll start coming or Cedar will try to get out. It is a bit funny that Jaskier is more spooked than the horse, but he’s seen the same from others.

Slowly Jaskier inches toward the paddock. “Are you certain? He won’t bite me, or kick me?”

“Not unless you bite or kick him.” This causes Jaskier’s mouth to twist instead of getting a laugh like he’d hoped, so Geralt continues, “Cedar is a very calm horse, used to beginners. You’re safe.” He’s within reach now, so he gives the other man’s arm a pat. Glancing at his still-wringing hands, Geralt spots the small constellation of scars in Jaskier’s inner elbows. Without realizing, his hand clenches slightly on his arm.

Jaskier takes some deep breaths, then nods. “Okay. Thank you, Geralt. Must say, I didn’t expect to be quite so nervous!” He grins up a Geralt, who responds with an amused huff and lets go.

Holding the gate open, he lets Jaskier through, grabs the step, and follows.

“What’s that for?”

Geralt takes it a little further away from the fence and plunks it down in the dirt, then goes back to lead Cedar by the rope on his bridle. “It’s so you can actually get on.”

“It can’t be that hard,” Jaskier responds, walking closer with a little more confidence. He can’t tell if he’s joking, and gives him a doubtful look.

Jaskier mumbles something about encouragement and confidence but ascends the three steps set beside the horse.

“Put your left foot in the stirrup.”

He does as instructed, slotting his boot into the stirrup. “You’re lucky I’ve seen some Westerns and I know what that word is.”

“Now swing your other leg over.” Geralt moves closer on instinct, stepping close to Jaskier.

Jaskier tries once but hesitates, his right foot landing hard on the step again. Cedar still stands calmly, but his ears swivel from the brief noise.

“Put your weight into the stirrup, the saddle won’t slide.” Geralt puts a steadying hand on Jaskier’s hip automatically, as he gears up for another try.

With a little “hup!” Jaskier swings his leg up and over Cedar’s rump, Geralt helping him keep his balance, and he settles into the saddle.

Suddenly Jaskier’s arms fly open. “Ha-HA!” he laughs, triumphant. He looks secure up there, posture straight and confident as he grins widely. Not too bad. 

Chuckling, Geralt smirks up at Jaskier. “There you have it. Hold on,” he says, and starts walking away with the step.

“Whoa, whoa, wait! Don’t leave!”

“I’m not. You’re okay.” He drops the stairs at the edge of the fence and walks back, seeing Jaskier clinging to the saddle horn as Cedar meanders over to Geralt. Jaskier wobbles a little with the swaying movement of Cedar’s pace. His smile is definitely gone.

Geralt waits for Cedar to walk close enough, then grabs the lead rope. “Here,” he says, and hands Jaskier the reins. “Don’t tug on these, just keep steady. Put your weight into your hips and balance yourself with your core muscles.” He watches as the musician’s better posture returns slowly, mentally working through his instructions. With a satisfied huff, Jaskier nods, looking down.

“I think this is the only time I’ll be taller than you. You better hope I don’t go mad with this power,” he says with a shaky smirk. Geralt gives him a dubious look and instead of answering, he begins to lead Cedar around the perimeter of the paddock. Jaskier lets out a wary sound, but his posture stays correct enough.

Slowly they wander around the ring, Geralt occasionally looking back at Jaskier, who beams at him every time he does. He can’t help but smile a little himself.

“Are all of your students as naturally skilled as I am?” Jaskier asks the next time Geralt glances at him.

“Maybe you’re just blessed with a good teacher.” The overly dramatic gasp from behind him draws out another low chuckle. “If you feel so skilled, you should take over,” he says, bringing Cedar to a stop. 

Jaskier tilts his chin to the air. “I certainly could, I feel confident in my newfound abilities.”

Geralt nods and shrugs, unhooking the lead rope from the bridle. “Keep calm and be gentle with the reins,” he says. Then, to Cedar, “Walk on.”

The horse keeps walking, though at a slightly faster pace than before. To his credit, Jaskier doesn’t seem too unsettled at having been given the reins. There’s a look of concentration on his face, though, and he’s no longer making jokes or comments. His posture is great still, and Geralt’s eyes wander down the other man’s legs, thinking about how long they look. He tries to ignore it, but Jaskier is good-looking, lean and charming. He thinks back to the first night, when he listened at Jaskier’s door. The musician’s voice was stuck in his head all night, quiet but deep, full of emotion.

There was no way any attraction could lead to anything, though. Jaskier would be leaving in a month or two, and besides, Geralt doubted he was much other than a curious old man in Jaskier’s head, having a bit of an adventure before resuming his old life back at the coast.

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice was shrill with worry, and Geralt snapped out of his thoughts to see Cedar had worked up to a fairly fast trot, heading straight for him.

Calmly, he put out a hand to slow the horse’s pace. “Whoa, Cedar,” he said, and the horse skid a little before stopping, kicking up a puff of dust.

“You okay?” he asks.

There’s a bit of colour to Jaskier’s cheeks as he nods. “Yes, I just wasn’t exactly prepared for the jump in speed. I thought you said he was a calm horse?”

“He is, it just gets boring to go slow sometimes.” Geralt says as he gives reassuring scratches to Cedar’s neck. “Want to keep going, or are you good for now?”

Jaskier hums, then asks, “Do you need to do anything other than babysit me today?”

“Not until three this afternoon. A trail ride.”

“I could go for a few more laps, then, if that’s alright with you? I won’t make for a good cowboy with half an hour’s worth of riding,” Jaskier admits with a wink.

Geralt rolls his eyes but smirks, too. “It’s fine, go ahead.”

***

Jaskier keeps practicing for another hour, growing much more sure with each lap and working up to what Geralt calls a full canter without so much as a squeak of protest. He is an eager student, and takes Geralt’s corrections in stride. It’s about 10:30am by the time they stop, the sun well into its arc across the sky. Crickets are starting to chirp, a sure sign that summer is looming.

The ache in his body is not one he’s familiar with, but he’s gotten used to how riding feels. His heart leapt into his throat as soon as Cedar sped up, but Geralt looked unconcerned and steady, always watching. Occasionally the older man would give advice - though it often sounded more like a command - but was mainly quiet and observant. Jaskier tries not to think too hard about being watched so attentively, but it’s distractingly difficult to ignore those golden eyes.

But the hour and a half of riding has finally worn down his determination to learn, so Geralt grabs the stairs as Jaskier tests out trying to guide the horse over.

“Okay, watch yourself getting down,” Geralt says and Jaskier pulls his right foot form the stirrup.

“I got up alright,” he says, swinging his leg over, “I can get off just fi- shit!”

His foot misses the step. He braces himself, expecting to hit hard ground. But he hears an “oof” instead. Geralt stares down at him, forehead creased with concern, as his hands grip Jaskier against his chest. “You okay?”

Geralt smells like the sweet hay of the barn and a bit of sweat and spice, and his flannel shirt is outrageously soft against his cheek. It takes Jaskier a moment to stop staring gape-mouthed at the other man, floundering for words. They’re so close. He can see the faintest crow’s feet around Geralt’s striking eyes, the stubble dusting his jaw.

“Yep!” he squawks, feeling heat rising in his cheeks.

He’s helped to his feet again, and the worry on Geralt’s face softens, into something Jaskier hesitates to call fondness. His legs burn and his hips are sore, and prefers to focus on that than how easy it was for Geralt to hold him. Much too easy.

The pair gather up everything and lead Cedar back to the stable. Including that blond horse from earlier, and the one Geralt fed a carrot, there seem to be five horses total. Five other stables are empty, some with name plates but most without. It makes Jaskier curious.

“How did you find yourself doing this, anyway, Geralt? Did you always want to be Mr. Country Man?”

Geralt leads Cedar into his stall and begins to free him of his gear, and Jaskier hears him huff in laughter. “No, I did not.”

He walks up to the side of the stall and leans, resting his head on his arms. Watching the other man, he can see how at ease he looks, handling the horses. All the tension leaves his shoulders.

“Can’t believe that,” Jaskier says, smirking when Geralt looks up at him.

“Cirilla’s grandmother willed the ranch to me, and I didn’t want to uproot her life. So, I moved here.” He shrugs.

“Didn’t that mean uprooting your own life?”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t have any roots to begin with. And Ciri’s more important.”

“Hm…” Jaskier wonders what he was doing before the ranch. A person doesn’t just not have a life. Even if it’s a shitty one, it’s still living. All you have to do is keep going.

“I think that’s my line.” He can hear the sly grin in Geralt’s voice.

“My word, I think you just made a joke!”

Geralt’s chuckling is the best sound, and Jaskier grins so hard his cheeks hurt. It makes his heart flutter in a wholly unwelcome way.

“Surely you lived somewhere before this, though?” Jaskier asks after a moment.

“Yeah, Vancouver. Don’t exactly miss it.” Geralt finishes up, closes the stall door, and walks over to a wall of hooks full of equipment. His tone sounds a bit final, so Jaskier doesn’t press further. Though he’d love to know if they’d crossed paths sometime before, if he’d somehow seen one of his gigs before he started recording and everything else.

“You must, though.” Geralt glances at him over his shoulder, reaching up to hang Cedar’s gear on the wall.

Jaskier turns, still leaning against the stall. “I don’t know, really,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “Some of it.” 

He doesn’t know whether Geralt will ask about his stint in rehab or not, and he doesn’t know what he’s willing to answer. He doesn’t want Geralt to think less of him, not now that they’re warming up. But Geralt doesn’t say anything else until he’s done fussing with the equipment.

“Come meet the others,” he says.

“Others?”

Geralt introduced him to Buttercup officially, as well as Nettle, Queenie, and Roach. The latter was clearly Geralt’s favourite, as he gave her the most carrots. Oddly, four large scars peered through the fur on her side.

“What happened to her?” he asked.

“Bear attack. She was my first rescue,” Geralt gives her a vigorous neck scratching.

Jaskier had nearly forgotten that they didn’t just have horses on the ranch. Following Geralt, he’s led to a smaller field, fenced with the same white-painted boards. Animal security didn’t seem too high in their priorities. 

By a low water trough there were two pigs, and at a slightly larger distance, a trio of cows. The two pigs snorted away, rooting around in the muddy mess they’d created. They were also much bigger than he expected.

“Are pigs normally that size?”

“Yep.”

Then they visited the chickens, who primarily didn’t lay eggs anymore but were kept around anyway, and it led them back to the house. His legs were on fire but it was absolutely fine and not at all total agony. He really needs to go hiking or something.

The pair stop at the porch, facing each other. “That’s definitely a lot of animals,” Jaskier says, “No wonder you’re busy.”

Geralt hums, looking back at the stable. 

Jaskier continues, “If you want another pairs of hands out there, let me know. I can also learn how to be a stable boy.” He grins at Geralt’s huffed laugh.

“Don’t need to do everything.”

He shrugs. “Well, it gives me an excuse to-" _see more of you, _his mind offers, but instead, he says, “-get out of the house. Build some ‘character.’” He strikes a pose and flexes unimpressively.__

____

____

Geralt’s clearly amused but shakes his head, “Sure.”

They stand there silently for a moment, and as Geralt’s amusement fades Jaskier worries he’ll start asking about why he’s here and not Vancouver. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks anywhere but Geralt, trying to calm his racing mind, but then-

“You should, uh, make lunch.”

Jaskier blinks. “Oh I _should _, should I? Is that all I’m good for?” He’s only teasing the man for once again commanding instead of using his manners, but Geralt starts fumbling over his words.__

__“It’s not- uhg, I meant-“ His palm hits his face and he sighs, exasperated. “I meant you should eat.”_ _

__Oh. “Alright, you have a point,” Jaskier says, keeping up his smirk, “But don’t expect me to chain myself to the kitchen, I am now a cowboy after all.” He mimes doffing an invisible cowboy hat._ _

__Relief, irritation, and mirth all fight for dominance on Geralt’s face, but instead of choosing, he just shakes his head and walks back to the stable._ _

__“If you don’t come inside for lunch I will chase you down on horseback with a sandwich!” Jaskier calls. Seeing Geralt’s hands rise to massage his temples, he laughs and returns to the house._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist can be found at this very not pretty link that you have to copypasta because I’m still learning AO3: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/45O36kDej94NbSIYL5jteK?si=BQwVV2yIQIuwW78axlILwA
> 
> It’s still kinda under construction, but I hope you enjoy! If you’re interested, I also have playlists titled G (for Geralt), J (for Jaskier), and Y (for Yen) mostly in relation to this fic, but also with some show inspiration.
> 
> Let me know what you think, and thanks again for reading!!


	4. Easy Now, Oh, With My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not-so-quiet moment in Geralt’s head, and some reveals about Jaskier!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this being much more Jaskier-dominant, but I felt like it was a good place to end this shorter chapter!
> 
> And who’s excited for season 2!?!?!
> 
> Please note, there are non-detailed mentions of heavy drug use and lack of eating food.
> 
> Things are slooooowly getting steamy, and emotional. I hope you enjoy!

Geralt finally starts heading back to the house by the time golden hour hits. The trail ride had gone a little longer than anticipated after one of the kids had been fooling around and fell off of Nettle’s back. Luckily, he insists all kids wear helmets, so this one was fine. He had to be sure the kid was okay before they could head back though, so they took a rest out in a copse of birch trees. The horses enjoyed the fresh grass while the family recovered from the shock, though Roach seemed a little impatient, bumping or nibbling whatever of Geralt she could reach. She hated waiting around when they could be exploring, and they hadn’t gone out, just the two of them, for a few weeks.

While they rested, he kept thinking back on his lesson with Jaskier. He gazed up through the shivering, silvery leaves at the clouds skidding by, but didn’t really see them. He thought of how Jaskier lit up, once he conquered his fear; how he looked in the stable sunbeam; the scent of him, something like comfort and sweetness, chai tea. These weren’t things he really wanted to think about, but the thoughts came unbidden and refused to leave. Geralt hadn’t felt like this in a long time, certainly before going to prison. After he got out, there was no room in his head for anyone but Cirilla. He thought he didn’t want to give anyone else room, either, but his heart, thudding away each time Jaskier winked or said something that could be flirty, appeared to disagree.

He sighed, and reminded himself that there was no point.

The family was led back safely, and once Geralt had settled the horses, he made his way to the house. The smell of tomatoes, garlic, and spices hit him as soon as he opened the door, and his stomach rumbled eagerly. Shedding his boots and jacket, he walks to the kitchen, where Ciri and Jaskier are gathered around the stove. Geralt leans on the wall to watch, arms crossed.

“Mix the rice in, then we add the cheese…”

Jaskier dramatically sprinkles a handful of shredded cheese over whatever’s on the stove, earning a laugh from Ciri, and continues, “Mix that and, voilà! Dinner!”

“Smells good,” he says, and both cooks jump in surprise. They must’ve been concentrating so hard they missed his return. 

“Hey, dad!” Ciri collides with him in a hug, “We made dinner!”

“What is it?”

She leads him over to the stove and Jaskier gestures to a large pan, almost overflowing.

“Zucchini-beef-rice-tomato-cheese Thing!” Jaskier says, “Simple, filling, and very delicious.”

Geralt hums and inspects the dish, which does look great. His stomach growls again and he looks at the ceiling, a little embarrassed.

“We’d better feed your poor, starving father before he withers away, Ciri,” Jaskier jokes.

“Yeah, that’ll definitely happen,” she responds dryly.

They busy themselves with setting the table, placing the pan on a trivet in the middle of the small table. Jaskier and Geralt brush past each other while grabbing bowls and cutlery, and Geralt forcibly ignores the tingling in his arms when they touch, even briefly.

The first bite Geralt takes makes him groan, it tastes so good. It’s the first fresh dinner he’s had in some time. The last two nights of Jaskier’s stay, they made do with canned soup and instant, boxed food. Ciri’s nodding in agreement as she shovels a heaping forkful into her face, but Jaskier is looking straight down at his bowl, fork raised halfway, staring blankly. His cheeks are tinged a little pink. Is he sick?

“You okay, Jaskier?” he asks around a mouthful.

He seems to jolt out of whatever was distracting him, a tight-lipped smile snapping into place. “Yep, totally fine, all’s good here, nothing to worry about. Glad you like the food!” Jaskier says as he finally takes a bite.

“I can make it next time!” Ciri says.

***

The next few days follow the same pattern: Jaskier keeps getting his horse riding lessons, or helps Geralt out in the stable before the trail rides start for the day. He’s starting to really like Cedar, and sees why Geralt dotes on Roach. And turns out they do have a computer, an old, bulky laptop hidden away in Ciri’s room for her school work. She gives him permission to use it when she’s not home so he can search for a place to stay in Vancouver, not that there’s much out there. It also feels a little… wrong, to be searching for places, but he can’t keep imposing on his hosts forever.

When Ciri comes back from school, he teaches her another recipe. She’s so thrilled every time Geralt likes what they’ve cooked, and secretly Jaskier is thrilled too. Geralt keeps slowly opening up. Jaskier can see that small half-smile of his more often, hears him chuckle at his jokes sometimes. And Geralt jokes back, rarely, his humour so dry it can take a moment for Jaskier to realize he’s joking.

It hits Jaskier one afternoon, while Ciri is at school and Geralt is on a trail ride and he’s left to his own devices, plucking away at his guitar on the porch, that he and Geralt are friends. Not the kind he got so used to, who clung to him when he had even a little bit of fame and used him as a drug hookup, or worse. It felt great, feeling needed, until it wasn’t. This is easy, instead, whatever’s between him and Geralt. He can’t lie to himself, though: he wants something other than friendship, too. When Geralt stands in the stable, brushing down Roach and mumbling to her, his long hair slipping out of its tie, he has to stop his feet from dragging him over there, stop his hand from brushing back that strand behind his ear. Geralt’s been in his dreams, too. A ghostly weight on him, his rough hands on his cheeks, gliding down to touch him, stroke him. Every time Geralt leans down to kiss him, though, his unusual eyes burning with need, Jaskier wakes up.

Those mornings are the worst, and he counts himself lucky that he’s usually the last one in the house. If he whispers his host’s name as he comes, well, that’s between Jaskier and his pillow.

Yennefer calls a week into his stay, with some mildly bad news.

“I’ve tried some of my old agent contacts for you, seems no one’s quite willing yet to pick you up again,” she says, her usually disinterested voice sounding genuinely regretful.

“Well it’s not like I was terribly big in the first place before I crashed and burned, which I also don’t doubt is a factor.”

“You don’t sound particularly miffed.”

Jaskier shrugs, knowing she can’t see it. “It is what it is. Maybe if I start releasing some singles on my own again it’ll get attention, but I can’t do that currently. Guess I gotta find a place first.”

He watches Geralt, stony-faced, get up and stalk out of the house, while mumbling something about Roach.

“How are things up there, anyway? Making a nuisance of yourself?”

“Generally good, actually. Turns out I make a good cowboy. And you were wrong about Geralt by the way, he’s pretty friendly once you get past that natural scowl of his.”

Yennefer just makes a thoughtful sound, then asks to talk to Ciri, who takes the phone into her room and closes the door after a second of chatting.

Summer is in full swing by that Sunday, and Geralt is busier than ever. He has Dara’s help, who, Jaskier notices, can’t help but stare all moony-eyed at Cirilla whenever she’s around. It makes him smirk and waggle his eyebrows at Ciri, who insists they are barely even friends. Either way, Jaskier helps too, either by mucking out the stalls, feeding the other rescues, or checking water troughs. He hopes to at least makes things easier on Geralt, who is taking on three or five trial rides a day. He comes home completely beat, wolfs down dinner, and goes to bed after only an hour or two of relaxation, trying to give Ciri as much attention as he can before passing out. Geralt always seems disappointed he can’t stay awake longer.

Jaskier has ended up spending his evenings with Ciri in his stead. They never talked about it, but Jaskier, feeling comfortable enough to barge in on their family time after dinner instead of running off to his room, starts staying up after Geralt goes to bed.

He’s noodling away quietly on his guitar as Ciri finishes her homework, when she asks, “Do you miss recording and playing concerts and stuff?”

It takes Jaskier a second to think, his head tilted in thought. “Some of it, yeah. It’s pretty hard work. Sorta miss the little cafe gigs more.”

“Why?”

“Less pressure. More people in their right minds who can actually enjoy what I’m playing, but they don’t pay too well.”

Ciri is quiet for a long time, and he thinks she’s gone back to her homework until-

“I saw the video. Of you, uhm, falling off stage.”

He plucks a very poor note much too loudly.

“It looked scary.”

He feels so much shame creeping up his neck, trying to choke him. “It was, yeah. I’m- I’m sorry you saw that.” Jaskier can’t look up at her, afraid of what he’ll see. He’s really grown to like Ciri, and he dreads seeing on her face what he saw from his parents, the utter shame and disgust.

“What happened?” she asks quietly, and instead he hears concern. Looking up, he doesn’t see a hint of disappointment in her grey eyes. Just worry.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, it’s a moment before he can answer. He doesn’t even know what he can tell her, she’s only thirteen. “I… wasn’t doing well. Taking some stuff that was really bad for me-”

“Drugs.”

“Yeah. Guess you kinda know, then.”

“Yen told me a little bit, before you came over, but didn’t tell me what happened.”

Truthfully Jaskier doesn’t really know what happened, either. He was so shit-faced it was a blur until he woke up in the hospital.

“...You don’t want to do that anymore, do you?”

“Fuck no,” was his immediate answer, but he claps his hand over his mouth, realizing what he said. It just makes Cirilla giggle.

“Has your dad seen the video?” he asks, his anxiety creeping up behind his shame and making his heart beat a little too fast.

Ciri shakes her head, “No, I found it after I googled you.”

“Not the top result, I hope.”

“Nope, your music is first. Would you play us something sometime?”

The relief doesn’t quite quell his other swirling emotions, but it’s something. “Sure, kiddo, I can do that.”

She smiles and packs up her schoolwork. But before heading to her room, she comes to give him a hug. It takes a lot of blinking to keep the surprised tears from rolling down his cheeks and into her hair, and he tentatively hugs her back. “G’night, Jaskier. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Aw, Ciri, I am too,” he says, clearing his throat of yet another lump. She steps away and heads to her room.

Jaskier rests his head in his hands. All he can do is breathe and try to rub the tears out of his eyes.

“You fell off a stage?”

He jumps up at Geralt’s quiet voice, clutching his guitar so it wouldn’t fall out of his lap. How long had he been there? For such a huge guy he can be unsettlingly silent. The man’s scowl was made much harsher in the low lamplight. Here it comes.

“Yeah, y’know, wish it had been a stage dive, but, well, I’m not the most graceful person as you can attest-”

The scowl shifts as Geralt comes out of the hallway’s shadows. There’s worry in his face, too. “What was going on?”

“Mainly heroin,” Jaskier squeaks out, “And very little sleep. Or food. A few other things.”

“Fucking hell, Jaskier.”

Geralt is eloquent as always. “That about sums it up.”

Looking torn, Geralt sits in his usual chair across from Jaskier, who sits again on the couch. He’s holding his guitar in a death grip, like he could use it as a shield if need be.

“That can’t happen in my house. Or around Ciri.”

“It extremely will not, I promise you, Geralt. I will not do that again, ever.” The determination in his voice surprises even him, and his host looks mollified.

Geralt doesn’t speak for some time, looking down at his hands, fingers woven together. Then, “What happened?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his face like he can scrub away the past. The dreaded question, which he can’t sugar coat like he could for Ciri. Geralt deserves the bitter truth of it.

“From what I remember, I shot up before the concert started. I hadn’t eaten for… two days? Anyway, I get through one song and start feeling awful, next I know, the world is spinning, people scream, and I’m out cold. Woke up in the hospital with a lovely pink cast on my arm and a hell of a concussion. Then the withdrawal started and I was shipped off to rehab.” He tries his best to keep his tone light, but the sharp edge cuts in and tears away Jaskier’s confidence. He can’t look at Geralt, holds his head in his hands, and there’s a heavy silence in the air.

“Thank you for telling me,” Geralt finally says. There’s a weight to the statement behind his rumbling tone, and Jaskier looks up. He looks tired, but it’s less like exhaustion and more world-weariness. There’s a softness to his eyes as he watches Jaskier, not pity or derision. This time Jaskier can’t hold back his tears, but he grins precariously as he swipes them away.

“Hey, no problemo,” he laughs, his breath hitching. 

Geralt stands and nods towards the hallway. “You should get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

All Jaskier can do is nod and follow silently. Geralt gives his shoulder a light touch before closing his door, and Jaskier flops into bed, sighing. That damn question was finally popped, and it led to exactly what Jaskier hadn’t dared to hope for. They _accepted _him. The image of his parents sneering at him as he laid in a hospital bed, shaking and sweating from withdrawal and pain, that was what he expected from Geralt and Cirilla. Instead they were so caring. A fresh wave of relieved tears spring up, and he buries his face in his pillow. How’d I get so lucky? he keeps wondering, until he drifts off to sleep.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! They really mean the world to me.
> 
> Chapter title is from Tightrope by Walk the Moon!
> 
> Don’t forget to check out the playlist, the link to which is in the last chapter.
> 
> <3


	5. All I Wanna Do is Get Into Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sooooo excited for this chapter, y’all. It was admittedly hard to write about a nice, sunny summer morning when we finally have snow where I live, but I think I got there it the end. 
> 
> Please note, there are very mild descriptions of an animal being hurt in the past, as well as brief mentions of past gun violence. Take care of yourselves, you’re worth it!
> 
> Chapter title is from I Really Like You by Carly Rae Jepsen. She’s Canadian! I know someone who knew someone who knew her.
> 
> Enjoy~

Geralt was in a fog all the next morning. His alarm went off at five as usual, and he went through his morning routine like a zombie, his mind occupied with last night’s conversation. The image of Jaskier falling off a stage, and his wrecked expression as he told Geralt what happened, kept playing on repeat in his head. It took more effort that he wanted to admit to stay in his chair last night, to either not break something or keep himself from holding Jaskier. What happened that led him to using? Yen said he’d fallen in with some bad influences, and that thought made anger boil in his veins. He had tamped down his violent side a long time ago, but if he ever met whoever caused Jaskier so much pain, they wouldn't get away without some broken bones.

At least he's here now, a small part of him says indulgently. If he felt the other man would welcome it, Geralt would have gone to the couch and drawn him into his arms, but as much as Jaskier can flirt and joke, Geralt doesn't want to impose himself. It's how some people are, and likely means nothing.

He finds that his feet have already brought him out to the stable, a slightly squished breakfast bar clenched in his fist, clearly on autopilot. He shoves the bar into his pocket as he walks up to Roach, her ears perked and expecting a treat. He steps into her stall and rests his forehead against hers, earning an impatient bump.

"I know, Roach," he says. She's antsy after having to stay cooped up and calm for the trail rides. Usually they can sneak off if there aren't any morning rides and go racing through the backcountry but they haven't had the time. Today, though, just as the sun starts seeping into the horizon, they have time, so he starts gathering Roach's tack.

"Geralt?"

He looks up from the tack wall to see Jaskier walking up.

"Sorry if I'm interrupting, I just heard you get up and, well," he trails off, wringing his hands.

Geralt's heart jumps at the sight of Jaskier's chestnut hair messed up from sleep, his clothes abnormally rumpled as if he'd dressed in a hurry. The bags under his eyes are worse, though.

"It's alright," he responds, "just going for a ride." An idea springs to mind, then. "Would you like to come?"

Jaskier was working up to saying something and leaves his mouth open in surprise. "Really? Have I graduated from riding in endless circles?"

He snorts. "Yeah. Here," he hands him Cedar's tack, now that he knows how to get Cedar ready for a ride, and says, "I'll check him when you're done, then we can go."

Jaskier's face lights up as he carries the equipment to his horse's stall. He hopes Jaskier has eaten, but they may cut the ride shorter than usual. Glancing outside, Geralt spots clouds on the horizon. 

"Do you have a jacket?" he asks, leading Roach to the other stall.

"Oh, no, not on me currently." He was just wearing the white tee and jeans he normally wears for riding. Geralt walks back to the tack wall and grabs his spare jacket, handing it to the other man.

"Might be a bit big," he says, and Jaskier laughs.

"A bit?" He pulls it on and seems to nuzzle into the sheepskin lining at the collar and gives Geralt a look, both searching and assessing, intense. "Nah, just right."

Geralt has to fight back the heat rising in his face. He hums and nods and busies himself with checking Cedar's tack is correct. With satisfyingly few adjustments, it is.

"Let's go."

They lead the horses outside and mount up, Jaskier managing without the step, and they trot off down the driveway.

“Where are we going?” Jaskier asks.

“Just across the road, there are a few trails between the Boskos’ property and others’.”

“Oh, okay. Do you take the trail rides this way too? I thought you usually went around your property.”

Geralt shakes his head, “No, these are just for personal use, friends and… friends of friends.” He sees Jaskier smile at that, and can’t help the one creeping up on his own face. He supposes that they are friends, and the revelation is both surprising and not. It’s been almost two weeks since Jaskier has been staying with him and Ciri, and he’s surely wound himself around their lives, but it’s comfortable. Geralt had expected feeling awkward and at odds with their guest, but instead he’s starting to dread the day he leaves. How empty the house will be.

As he’s been lost in thought, they cross the road and into the other property, and he notices that Jaskier has been talking. When he finally tunes back in, Geralt realizes he’s talking to Cedar, leaning over his saddle to stage-whisper into his horse’s ear as best he can.

“Do you think, boy, that they’re both quietly brooding away, or is it that Roach must bear the burden of Geralt and all his unspoken thoughts?”

Cedar nickers, almost like laughing, and Geralt tries his best to look unamused as Jaskier cackles loudly. The joy from him, even if it’s at his expense, is a much better sight than how scared he seemed last night. Their eyes meet, Jaskier’s shining with mischief, and Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him with an equally mischievous smirk.

“We’ll see who’s burdened,” he retorts, and urges Roach into a gallop. She’s off in an instant, and he hears Jaskier shout in surprise, then the telltale hoof beats of another horse in pursuit.

Geralt leads the way, knowing these trails by heart, the tall, straight pines whipping past. At a glance back, he sees Jaskier grinning madly, hunched over Cedar. They burst out of the trees into a vast field, gentle rolling hills covered in green-gold grasses, a hair-thin track winding across. The sun’s reedy morning light casts long shadows across the scene, not quite blinding yet.

At a nudge, Roach surges forward. Jaskier whoops loudly behind them, and Geralt can’t stop the grin on his face. His heart’s beating quickly. The staccato behind him gets steadily closer, but Roach still outpaces Cedar, Geralt muttering her praise. 

It can’t last. Roach can only race for so long, so he starts soothing her, letting her make her own pace. Jaskier catches up, zooms past them, and Geralt swears he saw the other man stick out his tongue as they go. Little shit, he thinks fondly.

Eventually Jaskier stops at a fork in the trail, waiting for Geralt to catch up. The sun finally peers over the distant mountains and paints everything in a light golden hue. Jaskier turns to him, seeming as if he wants to say something but pauses when he comes up close. His eyes soften as they dart about his face, down his body. Geralt blames the chills he gets on the cold morning air.

“C’mon,” he says, and nudges Roach onward down the left hand path. 

They meander along this trail as it gently slopes down, then up, towards a stand of birches holding court on top of the hill. It winds through the small forest, pulling them deeper into the trees, until Geralt takes them off the trail. He hears Jaskier say to himself, or maybe to his gelding, “Oo, mystery trail,” and it makes him snort.

Eventually they stop and dismount at a small clearing. A thin stream runs through the trees, the sounds of running water mixing with occasional birdsong. It was Geralt’s place to think, when he had time, when he needed a moment to himself. He lets Roach roam, knowing she won’t stray far, and Cedar seems perfectly content to do the same.

Jaskier is standing in the middle of the clearing, hands on his hips, taking it all in. He’s dappled with shadows and light, eyes to the sky, peering through the leaves.

“This place is amazing,” he says, and Geralt simply hums in agreement, sitting at the base of a sturdier tree. Jaskier follows suit, sitting so close their shoulders brush with the slightest movement.

“Who knew you had a little zen moment hiding out in here,” Jaskier teases mildly, bumping shoulders.

“I was lucky to find it.”

Jaskier nods and hums, still gazing at their surroundings.

“What were you going to say?”

“I’m sorry?” Jaskier says, turning to him.

“In the stable.”

“Ah, yes,” Jaskier folds his long fingers together, fidgeting again. “I just wanted to thank you for listening last night. For being so kind.” His usually cheery tone is much more level as he looks at the ground, not meeting Geralt’s gaze.

He shrugs. “It was nothing. I was worried, when I overheard what Ciri said.”

“Yeah, I know, I do mean it when I say I won’t do that-“

“I meant I was worried about you.” Finally Jaskier looks at him, eyes wide. It sets his heart pounding again, to admit how he felt, and he looks away from his friend and down at the grass between his feet.

“Oh.” He sounds surprised.

They sit quietly for a moment and Geralt feels like he’s shocked Jaskier into silence. The other man starts plucking blades of grass, never able to really sit still. But it doesn’t last. Jaskier turns to him again.

“I don’t really know much about you,” he says. “Bit unfair, since you know some of my sordid past.” He smiles, but it’s hesitant.

Geralt lets his head thunk against the tree trunk, sighing. It is only fair, he supposes, but he’d rather not. In the grand scheme of things, what he’s done is a fair bit worse than what Jaskier has told him.

“Okay. What would you like to know?”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

He laughs, loud enough to get the horses’ attention, glancing at his friend’s eyes. “Blue.”

“How manly,” Jaskier grins, obviously pleased with himself. “Okay. Why rescue animals?”

“There aren’t enough places that can take farm animals in need. We had space. It started with Roach.”

“When she was attacked, by a bear?”

Geralt nods. “She had been left behind by someone who moved, got out of her pen. The bear up on the ridge behind our house attacked her, but I heard her screaming and found her in time.” They both watch Roach as she munches on grass.

“That’s pretty lucky,” he says. He takes his time working up to the next question, tapping his feet on the ground. “Okay, you don’t have to answer this one if you don’t want to.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, waiting for whatever Jaskier will throw him next.

“Where is Ciri’s mother?” Jaskier asks it haltingly, like he’s afraid of spooking him, but it was what he expected.

“She died when Ciri was two years old.” Geralt sighs, “She lived here with her grandmother, Calanthe, until she died too.”

“Not with you?”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t know she existed, and I was… not in the best place. I wouldn’t have been allowed to care for her even if I knew.”

Confusion clouds Jaskier’s face. “Not allowed? Why?”

He sighs again, his teeth grinding together.

“You don’t have to-“

“I was in prison,” he says, and all kinds of shocked noises erupt from Jaskier. Before he can say anything, Geralt continues, finding he doesn’t want to stop. “I was in a shootout, between my gang and another. Nearly killed someone I knew and the police caught me trying to help her.”

Jaskier’s hand comes to rest on his white-knuckled fist. “Holy shit, Geralt. I really don’t know what to say. Was… was she okay?”

He just nods, not entirely trusting his voice. Geralt had expected Jaskier to pull away, not touch him. Very few people knew, and fewer still had stuck around after he told them.

“Does Ciri know?”

“Yes,” he croaks around the tightness in his throat, “Somehow it doesn’t scare her.”

“Maybe because that’s not you anymore.”

Geralt looks at the hand on his, then up at Jaskier’s silvery-blue eyes. There’s no shortage of determination there, no sign of sarcasm as he continues, “Just like being an addict isn’t me anymore.”

He draws in a shuddering breath and closes his eyes, trying to contain the emotions threatening to overtake him. The thudding of his heartbeat in his ears eventually dies down, after a few breaths, and he can open his eyes again. If they’re a little wetter than before, well, only Jaskier would know.

***

The pair don’t spend much longer in the little grove. Geralt has to return before the first trail ride of the day, and Jaskier notices a menacingly tall bank of clouds encroaching from the west, back where home is. So they get back on their respective horses and make their way back down the trail again.

Jaskier’s mind is racing with what Geralt told him. He does his best to keep it in, and he still has so many burning questions - why was he in a gang, first and foremost - but it seemed to cost Geralt a lot to tell him so much, so Jaskier keeps his curiosity at bay, a difficult feat.

However, there’s also a part of him that wants to dance with glee. Clearly Geralt keeps his social circle small to protect himself. It must not be easy to tell anyone about his past, especially one so dark. He used to be a dangerous person, that won’t sit well with, likely, the majority of people. While Jaskier knows so little still about what Geralt has gone through, he knows what it’s like to be afraid of letting others in. It’s only since getting therapy and rehab that Jaskier realized why he turned to drugs to turn his racing brain off, to feel his family’s rejection less keenly, among other things. He wants to dance because Geralt chose to let him in.

He watches the other man’s broad back as he leads the way back home - he quickly waves away the fact that he keeps calling it home - and Geralt doesn’t seem too tense. He didn’t pull his hand away when he’d touched it, didn’t immediately say they needed to leave. Jaskier wanted desperately to hug him, to hold his face between his hands and kiss him senseless when he saw the held-back tears in Geralt’s eyes, but the man was so stoic even when baring his secrets. Who knows if he’d even welcome Jaskier’s affection. He sighs to himself, staring at Geralt, letting his gaze wander down his back. If only.

Thunder booms across the field. The gathering clouds tower above them, and Jaskier feels the faint pinpricks of rain on his face. Geralt swivels in his saddle. “We’d better pick up the pace,” he says.

Jaskier nods. “Sounds good!”

Lightning cracks the sky in half, and barely seconds later thunder rumbles, loud enough that he can feel it echo in his chest. The sky is nearly dark with thick, heavy clouds, and they nudge their horses into a gallop. Less exhilarating than the ride before, they speed through the field, kicking up mud. The rain pelts against Jaskier’s face, cold and stinging. It’s hard to see Geralt through the sudden downpour and puts his trust in Cedar to get him back safely. They reach the evergreens again, the smell of pine and ozone fresh in the air as they get a mild reprieve from the rain, but soon they’re back in the open, racing past the farmer’s house to the empty road.

The driveway is all mud now, and Jaskier feels it splatter in his face as Cedar runs to the stable, also very eager to get out of the storm. Geralt and Roach get to it first, riding straight into the building before the man hops off. Jaskier follows, though Geralt has to help him calm Cedar down before he can dismount too.

“He’s not a fan of storms, I guess,” he says, finally dismounting. Cedar’s eyes are a bit white around the edges, his ears swivelling to and fro with each crash of thunder.

“Not many horses are,” Geralt responds, and sure enough he hears Buttercup whinny at the next flash of lightning.

They lead their horses to their respective stalls and relieve them of their tack. He starts talking to Cedar soothingly, saying nothing in particular and scratching his neck, and realizes he’s copying Geralt unintentionally. It seems to help, though, as Cedar starts looking a little calmer. 

He brings the tack back to the wall where Geralt is already hanging Roach’s gear. “That’s really something out there,” Jaskier says, looking out at the buckets of rain kept at bay by the stable’s roof.

Geralt hums. Standing so closely, the rumble from him almost rivals the storm, and Jaskier turns to say so. But when he does, Geralt gives him a curious look. “What-“

He feels Geralt’s hand on his chin, holding it still as he swipes away what he figures is mud. Heat rises to his cheeks so fast Jaskier almost feels dizzy, blinking at Geralt’s sudden closeness, the concentration in his yellow eyes. He notices how his silver hair curls slightly in the damp, the loose strands framing his beautiful face.

Fuck it.

Jaskier kisses Geralt.

It’s as simple as tipping forward a little, pressing their lips together, brushing his hands over Geralt’s cheeks, hoping to bring him closer. He feels Geralt gasp, his hand tightening on Jaskier’s face a little. But he pulls away, his golden eyes open with surprise, but also dark, his pupils wide.

Jaskier can’t help gasping for air a bit, his eyes darting between Geralt’s, hoping for some sign.

Geralt’s hand comes to rest on his neck, his calloused fingers curling around Jaskier’s neck as he leans back in. Their noses bump as Geralt finds his way back to Jaskier’s lips, a firm pressure. It’s fairly chaste, sweet, until Jaskier can’t hold back much more. He surges forward, wrapping his arms around Geralt, winding his fingers through his long, wet hair, kissing more, kissing harder. Geralt moans a little, pulling Jaskier against his body, his other hand teasing the bare skin at his hip. 

Geralt pushes him against the stable wall, crowding him. All Jaskier can smell is the rain and sweet hay and Geralt’s own, spicy scent. His hand is well up his shirt by now, his skin tingling where he’s been touched. Jaskier can feel Geralt’s growing hardness against his own, and bites gently on Geralt’s lower lip as he arches his hips, more than a little desperate for stimulation. He’s rewarded with another moan, feeling the noise rumble through the bigger man’s chest as he rocks back against Jaskier.

“Geralt,” he gasps, but before he can lean in again, Geralt pulls away.

Panting, Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier’s. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I- we can’t,” he says, pushing away from the wall, away from Jaskier.

Clutching Geralt’s spare jacket close, Jaskier feels chilled right through. _What did I do? ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please check out the playlist from chapter three if you’re interested!


	6. The Palms of Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is confused, Ciri is a better adult than the both of them, and Geralt starts to open up a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy, I hope you like this one. It’s been a long while since I’ve written what’s at the end of this chapter, and tbh I’m a little more than nervous. So I’m gonna post this before I overthink it too much more!!
> 
> Chapter title and the song Jaskier sings is from A Soft Place to Land by Kathleen Edwards.

The next few days are so tense, Jaskier’s shoulders won’t come down from his ears. He’s tried to corner Geralt, get him to talk, but the large man is surprisingly slippery. It’s so _frustrating_. Even Cirilla has noticed, but it isn’t difficult. Geralt stays out in the stable later, intentionally missing dinner, slips out of a room if Jaskier happens to enter it. It feels awful, like he’s forcing Geralt out of his own home.

One night, as Jaskier is teaching Ciri how to make chicken stock, she finally asks, “What happened? Did he do something wrong?”

Jaskier laughs, a little bitterly. “Why do you think he did something wrong?”

“He isn’t great at talking sometimes, or saying the right things.” 

_That’s for sure,_ he thinks, pursing his lips.

“It’s just, me and Dara, we’ve noticed how you… look at each other,” she says, staring down into the stew pot full of veggies and bones.

“Okay,” he says carefully, “How do you feel about that?”

Jaskier watches her prod at the brewing stock. “I want my dad to be happy. And he’s been really happy with you around, or he was.”

“I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s probably my fault,” Folding his arms, he leans against the counter.

“Why?”

He sighs loudly, feeling a blush spreading across his face and tilts his head back, trying to hide it from the very perceptive girl. “We just got a little too close, I guess, and he didn’t like it.”

Frowning up at him, Ciri says, “I don’t think that’s it,” and returns to the chicken stock. Jaskier just sighs again and goes back to the table, returning to his apartment search on Ciri’s laptop.

***

“Dad.”

Geralt leans out of Roach’s stall, seeing Cirilla walking his way with a determined expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his brow twitching with confusion. She only ever has that face when she’s tackling a math question.

She comes to a stop right in the middle of the stall’s open gate and crosses her arms, her blonde eyebrows knitted together. “Dad, why aren’t you coming in for dinner anymore?” Her question is almost interrogatory.

“I’ve been busy, Cirilla,” he states, “I don’t think I appreciate your tone.”

“Jaskier’s been really sad, and you’re not home anymore, and neither of you will really tell me why. You’re always honest with me.” Her accusation has turned into a plea, forcing Geralt to wince with guilt. He doesn’t know what to say. As long as he’s been free and taking care of Ciri, he hadn’t ever thought about bringing anyone else into their life. And it was _their_ life; if anyone wanted to be with him, they’d need to love Ciri too. They couldn’t just flit in and out as they pleased. Jaskier didn’t seem the type to flake, but Geralt can’t really be sure.

Rubbing his neck, Geralt sighs. “Ciri, it’s not simple.”

“I bet it is,” she pouts, and he shoots her another warning look. Huffing, she comes into the stall and leans on the wall, waiting for him to continue.

“Look, Jaskier wants to… get involved, with me.” Even saying it so vaguely brings a static feeling to his skin, a buzzing excitement he has to overlook. Ciri, however, looks excited.

“Like dating?”

“Uh, not quite,” he says, though really, he doesn’t know what Jaskier wants. Geralt knows some of what he wants, and has to glare at Roach to keep himself from going down that train of thought. Roach just headbutts him.

“If you’re worried about me, it’s okay,” Ciri is frowning at him again, but it’s less out of anger now, “I know people can leave, but I don’t think Jaskier would. If you asked.”

He reaches out and pulls her into a hug. “I really don’t know, sweetheart,” he mumbles. She gives him a squeeze and pushes off him.

“You always tell me you won’t know until you try,” she states, then walks back to the house, leaving him with Roach and too many thoughts in his head.

***

On the third Monday of his stay, Jaskier is sitting in his room after dinner, plucking out some chords mindlessly. Geralt was still avoiding him, ducking out of rooms and avoiding dinner. Ciri seemed surprisingly less concerned than she did a few days ago, but kept her reasons to herself. So Jaskier kept making dinner with her, enough for leftovers which would be pilfered by the next morning, then would retreat to his room to worry about apartments and his career and very decidedly _not_ about Geralt. Except that was very untrue.

His mind still unhelpfully gave him dreams about the man, more real now that he knew what his lips felt like (softer than he thought, the hesitation behind them so endearing, the slight burn of stubble). Maybe he just needed to get it out of his system, like a really stubborn fever.

Jaskier really wished that he knew why Geralt rejected him, but it was no use trying anymore. The tightness in his chest would hopefully ease, and he’ll move soon enough. He’s been emailing a potential landlord in Commercial Drive who seems eager to rent to him.

All he wants is someplace to stay. Someplace safe, maybe someone safe eventually. There was the tiniest hope in his heart that Geralt could maybe be that someone. They’d gotten so close, there was certainly _something_ between them, and Jaskier had grown to love the ranch and the pigs and cows and Cedar. Ciri is a great kid, and though he’d never really thought about having one, he would have been more than happy to be in her life too. If Geralt had wanted that, but he made it clear he didn’t.

A song comes to mind, one he used to practice for a more sombre sound, so he starts playing, his fingers dancing over the strings. It was meant for piano and violin, but it was easy enough to suss out on guitar.

_Callin’ it quits,  
You think this is easy,  
I swear I hear you call in the jury,  
Call it a catch  
Without any strings attached…_

He finishes the melancholy song, thinking too much about Geralt’s hands, the phantoms of them still on his mind. If they’d kissed in the glade, would it have been different? Jaskier thinks about Geralt in the early morning light, under the shadows of the trees, in the gloom of the stable, so gorgeous and serious. Flopping back on his bed, his chest heaves with a heavy sigh. Think I’ve fallen for him a bit, he muses with a self-deprecating chuckle.

Jaskier’s fingers go back to his guitar, hoping to find a distraction as he stares at the ceiling. Then, there’s a knock. On his door.

Sockless, he walks across the small room and opens the door with a slight creak. Geralt is standing on the other side, his hands tucked into the pockets of a black leather jacket Jaskier has never seen before, and his hair has been neatly pulled back from his face, not one hair out of place.

He blinks. “Hi,” he squeaks.

“Hi,” Geralt says, shuffling awkwardly.

After a moment, Jaskier is about to ask what he needs, when Geralt finally speaks again. “Would you like to go for a drive?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Geralt looks like he’s fighting the urge to run away and also like a worried puppy. “Jaskier, I-”

“Yes, okay,” he says, catching himself before he almost touches Geralt’s shoulder to reassure him, “Just let me get dressed.” If it requires Geralt to get dressed up, his pajama pants would not do.

Nodding, with the faintest hint of a smile, Geralt says, “I’ll wait,” and walks away.

Jaskier closes his door, his feelings swirling. Where were they going to go, and what were they going to do? Is Geralt taking him on a date, or just to apologize? There were too many questions without answers to fully formulate a proper outfit, so he goes for burgundy jeans and a black button-down, muted. A last minute decision makes him grab Geralt’s spare jean jacket instead of his own. He forgot to leave it in the stable, and has kept it in his room ever since. Maybe a lack of self-preservation makes him take it now, but either way, he slips it on before he can second guess himself.

And he smacks straight into Geralt, who had also been coming back down the hallway. Jaskier bounces back, but he made no similar impact on the veritable wall that is his host.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder and Jaskier sees him realize what he’s wearing. “Just wanted to see if you’d bring your guitar. If you want.”

He can’t take his eyes off the coat, and Jaskier feels a little bolder. “Need me to serenade someone?” he teases, pulling yet another small smile from Geralt. He’d missed those.

“Sure,” is his response, and Jaskier has to keep himself from running for his guitar. His heart is pounding as he latches it into its case.

They walk together to Geralt’s old green truck and jump in. As they’re buckling up, Jaskier has to ask, “Will Ciri be okay by herself?”

The corners of Geralt’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, he notices. “Yes, she’ll be fine.”

They drive off into the night, the road dark without light posts. Geralt turns away from the road to town, the lights sparkling in the distance behind them as they delve into the forest instead.

“So where are we going?” Jaskier asks.

“Not far.”

“That doesn’t tell me where we _are_ going, however.”

“Nope.”

He can tell by Geralt’s occasional glances that he’s really just joking, but it’s still a little irksome. He’s been tight lipped and evasive for nearly a week, the least he could do is say a little bit more. Jaskier keeps this to himself, though, afraid of spoiling whatever this may be. Instead he huffs and folds his arms melodramatically.

Turning onto a small dirt road, Geralt eventually pulls up to a break in the trees, then backs the pickup into place. He jerks his head at Jaskier, implying he should follow as he hops out and walks to the back of the truck.

Jaskier slings his guitar over his shoulder and walks to the truck bed, finding Geralt standing near the edge of a cliff. His silhouette is black against a backdrop of millions of stars, and down below, a lake calm enough to mirror the sparkling sky.

***

Jaskier’s wonder is written across his face as he walks up beside Geralt. “This is amazing,” he breathes, taking in the view.

Geralt hums in agreement, watching his friend. His eyes adjust quickly to the starlight and takes in this view, Jaskier’s eyes shining, rimmed with dark lashes, his adorable round nose, his lips…

“Jaskier-“

“Now I do hope you know that this doesn’t count as an apology,” he says with a reproachful stare.

He sighs, “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Geralt steps back to sit on the open tailgate and hangs his head. He certainly deserves Jaskier’s ire, and regrets what he did, or the majority of it, at least. “I acted foolishly.”

The truck dips a little as Jaskier sits beside him. “Avoiding both me and your daughter was definitely foolish. I think you kinda hurt her.”

Geralt snorts, giving him a look. “She made that very clear. We’ve worked it out.”

“Good.” Jaskier nods firmly, then pulls his guitar out and starts strumming a steady rhythm with an uncomplicated tune. “Was anything else foolish?” he asks, keeping his eyes on his fingers and the frets.

He wants to have Jaskier’s full attention, to take one of his hands in his own, but doesn’t want to interrupt him. “Leaving you in the stable was,” Geralt says instead, and the steadiness of the music falters.

“Was it?”

They lock eyes, and Geralt thinks he’d really miss seeing Jaskier’s eyes every day. They dart down to Geralt’s mouth then back, quick enough it could’ve been mistaken. He can feel his own pulse under his skin, and he itches to reach out, to find those freckles he knows Jaskier has earned while working under the sun for the past few weeks.

With a sigh, Jaskier runs a hand through his brown hair, then down his face. “Geralt, it can’t be on one moment and off the next. That’s not fair. If you’d just _tell me_ what you want, we could avoid,” he wobbles his hand between them, “Well, whatever this issue is.”

Crickets chirp away in the pause between them, but it feels as though Jaskier is giving him a moment to gather his thoughts.

"I want Ciri to be happy, and have a stable home. I don't want to bring someone in only to have them leave once they're done with us. With me." Hesitantly, Geralt lifts his hand to brush a lock of Jaskier’s hair behind his ear, letting his hand rest on the back of his neck. He looks amazing in his jacket, like Jaskier is _his_ , though he isn’t. “I also want you, Jaskier.”

Geralt feels a shudder run through Jaskier, and he leans into his touch ever so slightly. His thumb traces circles into the back of his head, absently.

“Don’t think I could ever really be done with you, Geralt,” Jaskier half-whispers, eyes hooded as he looks up at him.

Jaskier places his guitar in the truck bed behind them as Geralt pulls him closer, and finally their lips meet again. It sends an instant thrill down Geralt’s spine, and he’s kissing back, hungry for more. Barely stopping, Jaskier climbs onto Geralt’s lap, his hands coming up to tangle in Geralt’s hair. Geralt brushes his hands up Jaskier’s thighs, his hips, tugging out his tucked in shirt to get at his soft skin. His touch makes Jaskier gasp, and Geralt deepens their kiss, licking into his mouth, moaning as Jaskier’s fingers clutch at his hair. 

He slowly leans back and leads Jaskier down with him. They break apart, panting. Jaskier looks glorious, framed by stars, a little dazed and flushed. He can’t keep his hands from roaming across his back, and scratching a little makes the younger man shiver. Jaskier whispers his name and swoops back in, claiming Geralt’s mouth as he rocks his hips down. Their erections rub together and Geralt _growls_ , bucking into the pressure.

“Fucking hell, Jaskier,” he pants, and Jaskier chuckles as makes his way down Geralt’s neck, biting and kissing as he goes. Each nip makes him harder, makes him grind up against Jaskier’s body. His fingers dig into Jaskier’s sides as he bites down hard on his neck. Glancing up, Jaskier tugs on the buttons of Geralt’s shirt.

“Can I?”

Geralt simply nods. Jaskier’s deft hands make easy work of the buttons, and as he pushes the flannel aside he hears Jaskier curse softly, “Fuck, Geralt, you’re beautiful.” His long fingers brush over Geralt’s chest, making him shudder and close his eyes. A thumb playfully tweaks one of his nipples, drawing a chuckle from him. He brings his own hands to Jaskier’s buttons, quirking a questioning eyebrow and earning an eager nod. 

Leaning back up, letting his shirt and jacket fall, Geralt captures Jaskier’s lips again, slowly kissing into his mouth as he takes his sweet time undoing the black shirt with one hand. The other is hooked into Jaskier’s belt loop, keeping them close. The pace is driving Jaskier a little mad, jerking his hips against him, and he can’t keep his hands to himself, digging into Geralt’s hair, roaming over his abs, sending sparks of pleasure throughout Geralt. But he won’t rush. Geralt wants to enjoy this.

Finally Jaskier slips out of his shirt, and Geralt’s hands drag up his skin, over the hair on his chest. He looks so much healthier than when he first arrived, filling out his shirts finally, building muscle from riding and farm work. Geralt peppers him with kisses, cataloguing the freckles on his collarbones. Jaskier is gasping, head thrown back, hands gripping hard on Geralt’s shoulders for support. 

“Geralt, please,” he begs, grinding their hips together, making them both moan.

“I didn’t bring anything,” he admits, kissing Jaskier softly in apology. He didn’t expect this to happen.

“That’s fine, just… anything will do, your hands, your mouth,” Jaskier’s own hand reaches down between them, rubbing Geralt’s cock through his jeans as he stares intently into Geralt’s eyes, “Or I can, for you.”

Geralt’s breath hitches, he arches into the touch and a groan rumbles out of him. “Fuck, yes Jaskier, okay,” he babbles, and Jaskier is already unhooking his belt. He leans back on his elbows to give him more room, to watch as Jaskier unzips him and frees his dick. Geralt sees his eyes widen and smirks a little, but his amusement is short-lived as Jaskier wraps his hand around him and swirls his thumb over the head. He chokes out a loud moan, fists clenching against the spike of heat that jolts through him, then starts to build as Jaskier starts caressing him, up and down, using precome to make the sensation just a little less rough.

It’s been years since someone else has touched him, he’d nearly forgotten how it felt. His chest is heaving, and he jolts every time Jaskier brushes over his head. Geralt sees Jaskier gaze at him, smirking but hungry, eyes dark with arousal, and reaches up to pull him close, to taste him again, grasping at his short hair. Jaskier chuckles, mumbles, “Grabby,” against his lips, earning a hard bite to his lower lip. 

Drifting his hand down to the button of Jaskier’s jeans, Geralt pulls back slightly and yanks a little on the waistband. “You too?”

Jasier grins. “Yes, yeah, that would be grand,” he says, and Geralt pops the button out with ease and slips his hand down, rubbing his cock through his briefs. He earns a strangled groan and Jaskier’s hand clenches around Geralt’s hardness. He’s growing impatient now and frees Jaskier, stroking him in time with Jaskier’s movements as best he can.

Wiggling, Jaskier inches up Geralt’s hips and presses them together. Geralt almost sighs in relief at the contact, and wraps his hand around them both. Jaskier is shaking and thrusting, fucking into Geralt’s hand, and it’s the best thing he’s felt in so long. Heat is coiling in his groin, and someone is muttering, “Fuck fuck fuck,” over and over. He only realizes his eyes are closed when Jaskier leans into him, devouring his mouth, pulling his hair.

“Ah, Geralt, please, _c’mon_ ,” Jaskier urges him to go faster, and he complies, pumping them and listening to the almost pained gasps from the man on his lap. Jaskier crushes their foreheads together, his nails digging into his shoulders, and moans, loud and deep, as he comes, cock twitching against his. Breathless, Jaskier bats Geralt’s hand away from them and takes him in his own, hurriedly stroking him to his release.

“ _Jaskier!_ ” he cries out, stars flashing behind his eyelids, bucking up and chasing the slowly fading thrill.

He flops down onto the cold truck bed, ignoring the pain of impact and the rapidly cooling come on his chest, panting for air. Jaskier shakily lowers himself down and curls into Geralt’s side, limbs tangling with his to keep them close, touching. His hands can never stay still, though, as one ghosts over Geralt’s muscles, drawing goosebumps from his skin.

A sigh gusts over his chest. “That was definitely worth it,” Jaskier says, “I must say, I’ve never had sex in the bed of a truck before.”

Geralt chuckles lowly, feeling the other man’s smile against his side. His mind is still reeling a little, so he can’t find some witty retort and settles on wrapping his arm around Jaskier, pulling him even closer.

“You sure are grabby,” Jaskier states, amused, and Geralt just hums. He almost says that Jaskier is bossy, but instead he buries his face in his soft, dark hair, inhaling the sweat and sweetness of him.

Unable to let silence stand, the younger man chatters on about the view or the truck, kindly asking questions that only require a grunt to answer. It isn’t until Jaskier starts shivering that Geralt finally speaks again. “We should go home,” he says, kissing the top of his head.

“Oh yes, right, home,” he nods, stretching and groaning obscenely before straightening himself out. They slip back into their clothes and off of the truck, but Geralt grabs Jaskier before he heads for the passenger side.

“Jaskier.”

He looks up at Geralt, trust and kindness and a bit of tiredness in his face, and Geralt rests his hands on his hips, gently leading him closer. Ducking his head slightly, he kisses Jaskier again, slow and sweet and deep. There’s more they should talk about, he knows, but the warmth that blooms in him when Jaskier wraps his arms around his neck drowns out the niggling worries in his head. Maybe, he hopes, it’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


	7. If I Smile With My Teeth, pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s some doubt sewn, some hope grown, and some plans laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the encouragement after the last chapter! You’re all amazingly sweet people!
> 
> This was going to be longer but I realized it might get a bit too long if I kept going, so here’s this chapter a little shorter and earlier than I’d originally expected. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter title is from Fake Happy by Paramore.

Jaskier keeps meaning to talk to Geralt, he really does. After that night on the cliff, under the stars, he knows there’s more they need to say. But good lord, Geralt is such a distraction. They’re around each other all the time, all casual touches and stolen kisses and _grabbing_ , though that’s mostly on Geralt’s part. The taller man will wrap his arms around him from behind, pull him close and nibble on his neck, or grab his hand and yank him over. And the amount of times he’s caught Geralt just watching him, eyes hungry and roving, or even just smiling with that little uptick at the corner of his lips and a softness in his eyes. It’s so different from any other person he’s been with, though they were usually only in it for a quick fuck and his drug connection. There wasn’t any interest beyond using and being used. But Geralt was so different.

It was flattering beyond belief to be wanted so much, Jaskier revelled in it and hoped he made Geralt feel the same. Every laugh he earned, every smirk or gasp he elicited from Geralt was a treasure he hoarded. 

One evening, Geralt had managed to stay up later than usual, spending time with Jaskier and Ciri after dinner in the living room. It was so… domestic, Geralt reading in his chair, Jaskier practicing some songs, and Ciri diligently working on homework and occasionally asking for help. It wasn’t at all the life Jaskier thought he’d really have a chance to live. Looking up from his guitar, Jaskier saw Geralt watching him again and smiled, getting one in return and feeling his heart stutter. 

“You two are really mushy,” Ciri states, not even bothering to look up from her work. Geralt’s eyes widen and a faint blush rises to his cheeks, and Jaskier can’t help roaring with laughter.

“You’ll understand one day, young Padawan,” Jaskier says, then starts strumming and sings,

_”When the moon hits your eye-”_

“Don’t you dare,” Geralt growls, managing to look both embarrassed and exhausted. He grins mischievously but goes back to practicing quietly. Glancing at Ciri, Jaskier sees her smiling at her homework.

After a few more moments of quiet, Ciri yawns and bids them goodnight. Both men get a hug before she leaves them by themselves. It’s reassuring to Jaskier that she’s comfortable with him, too. He’s still teaching her recipes, but she’s picked up quite a lot and doesn’t need much aid anymore. Now it’s just fun to cook together. Sometimes Geralt manages to join in despite the size of the kitchen. It really feels like the family time he never got.

Strumming away, a little louder now that he isn’t afraid of ruining Cirilla’s concentration, Jaskier peeks at Geralt again. He’s put his book down, shamelessly watching him from across the room. A chord change, and Jaskier is singing again, voice low, lips smirking.

_“You’re so gorgeous…”_

Geralt walks over and Jaskier rushes to get his guitar out of the way, because Geralt is leaning over him, crowding him on the couch. With a hand around his neck, Geralt pulls Jaskier up to kiss him, his tongue pushing past Jaskier’s lips. He hums a moan and lets his hands roam up under the hem of Geralt’s shirt, admiring his muscled torso. How the hell did he get so lucky?

There’s a small cough from behind them and Geralt bolts upright, leaving Jaskier open-mouthed and blinking. Ciri walks by and into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. He has to press his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing. Ciri walks back to her room with a scrunched up look and water in hand and Jaskier breaks, cackling, covering his eyes against the sheer flustered look on Geralt.

Once his laughter fades, Jaskier sits up, grabbing Geralt’s hand and kissing his knuckles, trying to ease the wince frozen on his face. “Bet neither of you are used to that, huh?” he teases.

Geralt sighs and finally opens his eyes, an amused quirk to his sharp features. His thumb starts circling Jaskier’s knuckles. “No,” he says.

Jaskier guides Geralt back to him, and they descend into kissing once again, lazy and sweet.

More often than not, Jaskier wakes up in Geralt’s room. He isn’t used to the horrifically early hour that Geralt insists on getting up at, often complaining once Geralt extricates himself from Jaskier’s limbs. But before then, he relishes the quiet moments they have before the sun rises. Geralt’s voice is even rougher right as he wakes, a low growl that hits Jaskier low in his belly. 

The worry always sneaks in as Geralt leaves for the stable, as Jaskier lies alone in the other man’s bed. They still need to talk, but Jaskier fears how it will end. He doesn’t want to leave, but he doesn’t want to abandon his career either, and everything, from his old equipment to recording studios and agents, are still back in Vancouver. Would Geralt even want him to move in, anyway? Jaskier still hasn’t even been living here for a full month. An insidious voice in his head makes him wonder if Geralt would get tired of him after a while, lose interest, make him leave. So many have.

He can only somewhat shake off his anxiety once he gets up and makes his own way out to the stable to lend a hand. There Geralt greets him with a kiss and a list of things to get done, and it’s a good enough distraction.

***

Geralt is watching Jaskier sling square bales around, admiring the flex of muscle beneath Jaskier’s slowly tanning, freckled arms, when the phone rings. He closes his eyes and sighs, hoping it will stop. Ciri isn’t home to pick up, so waiting it out is all he can do. But Jaskier, standing close to the offending device, drops the bail in his hands and picks up the receiver.

“Hello, Geralt Rivia’s Fantasical Menagerie!” Jaskier says to the likely confused person on the other end of the line. His voice echoes in the quiet stable.

Geralt goes back to tacking up Roach for the impending trail ride, catching the laughter from the other man. 

“Yes, hello. How have you been?”

He half-heartedly defends his pocket from Roach’s searching teeth, looking for a treat, only half his attention on the task at hand. Jaskier sounds like he knows this person. He overhears him chatting about how he’s doing, what he’s been up to. Curiously, he leaves out their, well, whatever they’re doing together. Hm.

“Geralt?”

Looking up, he sees Jaskier waving the phone at him. “It’s Yennefer.”

He grunts and walks over to grab the old corded receiver. “Hello, Yen.”

“Hi there, darling. How’ve you been?”

“Just fine,” he says, going back to watching Jaskier work.

“Good to hear. And Ciri?”

“Good too. School’s almost out for the summer,”

“Exciting.” She sounds less than excited about it.

“Why did you call?”

“Just a check-up this time, dear. Truly I wanted to make sure Jaskier was doing alright. He sounds rather happy up there,” she says, a suggestive tone creeping into her voice.

Geralt hums. Jaskier is standing in the doorway, bathed in afternoon sunlight, wiping sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt. Noticing his staring, Jaskier grins and winks.

“Geralt?”

“What?”

“You seem distracted.” The purr to her voice is unmistakable.

He turns away from the exit of the stable. “Yennefer,” he warns, gently.

“I’m teasing you, you know that. Besides, if there is something happening up there, I think I’m allowed to gloat a little.”

There’s no way he can answer without denying it, not that he wants to, but Jaskier held back and Geralt worries he didn’t mention it for a reason. However, Yennefer takes his pause as confirmation.

“Something _is_ happening, isn’t there?” she asks. He can hear her sit up straighter.

“Yes, but…”

“But what? Are you both happy?”

“I hope so,” he says, low, glancing back at Jaskier, who walks outside the building.

“Please tell me you won’t fuck it up,” Yen says, sounding unimpressed.

“Why would I be the one to fuck it up, Yen?” he growls, “I have Cirilla to think about, and the ranch, I can’t just fling myself at someone. I want,” he pauses, the anger flying from him. “I want him to stay, but I can’t be sure about him yet.”

“It hasn’t even been a month,” Yennefer says, surprised, “You sound like you really like him.”

He sighs, leaning against the wall. “Yes. I do.”

“Then make sure he knows. There’s no way to ever be sure about someone, Geralt. If he has to leave, then he does, but what if he doesn’t?”

“I don’t know, Yen.”

She’s silent for a second and Geralt thinks he can feel her frustration radiating through the phone. “You’re allowed to hope for things, you know,” she states.

Geralt just hums.

***

A few days later, and Jaskier has some plans in motion. They’re small, simple, but he hopes they go over well. It’s the week that Jaskier would have been getting ready to leave, if he hadn’t decided to ask Geralt if he could stay. He wants to show his appreciation for all they’ve done for him, and it’s Ciri’s last day of school, so has concocted a little treat for his hosts.

Instead of helping Geralt today, he stays in the house and bakes. First he starts on the bread, as it’ll take the longest. He’s borrowed Ciri’s laptop again for the recipes he needs, leaving it open on the table. The warm, sweet, nearly tangy smell of yeast and rising dough fills the little kitchen as he watches the sun climb into the sky.

Geralt nearly stumbles in on the surprise just before lunch. Jaskier was going to bring him a sandwich to ensure he didn’t come back to the house, but he’d lost track of time practicing some songs.

“Why does it smell like bread in here?” Geralt shuts the front door and kicks the dirt off his boots, giving Jaskier time to scramble up and stand in the entry to the kitchen, wrapped sandwich in hand. In an attempt to appear nonchalant, he leans against the wall, arms crossed.

“Oh, I was just making toast,” he says. It was the only excuse he could think of, and the doubtful look Geralt gives him tells him it’s not exactly effective. Damn.

Walking up, Geralt slides his hands around Jaskier’s waist, drawing him close. But instead of getting a kiss like he’d hoped, Jaskier sees him peering around him to the kitchen.

“Now, now, nothing to see in there,” he says, smacking the sandwich against the man’s pecs.

“Hm, really,” Geralt studies him, then finally dips down for a kiss.

Jaskier brings his free hand up, twining his fingers into Geralt’s long hair, deepening the kiss. He really hasn’t gotten used to the thrill it gives him, a zing straight down to his toes, setting his heart pounding. He hopes it never gets old, or at the least gets so much sweeter with age. One of Geralt’s hands slips down to grab his ass, making Jaskier chuckle against his lips.

“Later,” he says, his voice quiet with desire. “In the meantime,” he clears his throat and once again smacks the sandwich against Geralt’s chest, “Go play outside.”

Geralt looks unimpressed, but takes the sandwich and leaves him with a brief parting peck. Relieved, he goes back to his practice and recipes.

A few hours later Cirilla bounds through the front door, fresh off the school bus. “What are you making, Jaskier? It smells really good!” she says, colliding into him in an excited hug and knocking the breath out of him. Jaskier ruffles her hair and squeezes her back.

“Just a little something for you and your dad, kiddo. How was school?”

She launches into describing her final day of class, and Jaskier fondly remembers his own over the years. Sounds like things don’t change much, with games and hang-outs prioritized over any actual learning. Any time she mentions Dara, he smirks. Seems they’ve become fast friends.

“You’ll probably still be hanging out with him a lot, huh? Since he’s working here over the summer,” Jaskier says.

Ciri hums demurely, fidgeting with a puffy cat sticker on the keyboard of her laptop. Instead of teasing her further, he nudges the mousepad and shows her the next recipe on his list. “Wanna help me with this one?”

She grins and nods, so they set to work.

By the time Geralt returns from work, everything is set, ready, and waiting. Jaskier waits by the door, having watched Geralt’s offensively handsome form approach the house. When the door opens, he’s leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“Hello,” he says softly.

Geralt smiles and Jaskier slowly loses his composure as the other man’s eyes travel down his body, first lustful then extremely confused.

“Why the hell are you wearing that?”

“Why, this?” Jaskier tugs on the delicate, lacy trim of the pink gingham half-apron he’s tied around his waist, over his nicer clothes of course. “Oh, it’s just something I threw on.”

Geralt strides over, his face twisted in dubious amusement. “Please take it off,” Geralt asks with a chuckle. He begins undoing the ties for Jaskier without waiting for his sanction, standing closer than necessary, the slight gusts of his breath warming Jaskier’s cheeks. He smells the hay and horse on him, clinging to his clothes, and the musky spiciness that’s exclusively Geralt. Brushing his fingers over Geralt’s face, admiring the square, solid jaw and honey-toned eyes, Jaskier pulls him down for a kiss. Geralt sighs against his lips, sounding content as he frees Jaskier of the offending garment and wrapping his arms around his waist instead.

“Much better,” the taller man rumbles, his mouth ghosting over his, causing Jaskier to breathe just a little bit faster. He wants to stay here forever, held and safe, feeling as though his heart will burst with happiness. But instead, it’s dinner time, and Jaskier leads Geralt by the hand into the kitchen, hope zinging through his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs alluded to in this chapter are That’s Amore by Dean Martin and Gorgeous by X Ambassadors.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. If I Smile With My Teeth pt. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier does his best to let Geralt and Ciri know he’s thankful, but misunderstandings abound!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the delay on this one, and I’m sorry that the chapter isn’t longer for the extra time I took! I really had to wrestle with this one. I hope you enjoy, though! Thanks for your patience!
> 
> Chapter title is from Fake Happy by Paramore

The table had been set before Geralt arrived, and Jaskier led him to a chair. Neatly arranged, the flatware and dishes and glasses were shining, as if they'd been wiped down of dust. Geralt felt like he was at a restaurant and not his own kitchen. Ciri was standing with her back to the stove, clearly protecting something from his sight.

"Seems you've been busy," he says, playfully trying to get a peek around his daughter to see what she was hiding. Stalwart, she defends the secret, frowning seriously at her dad as she makes increasingly ridiculous poses to block his view.

“Keep it up, Ciri! Not much longer!” Jaskier cheers from the fridge. Turning, he reveals the bottle in his hand, some kind of non-alcoholic bubbly, held with a white napkin like he’s a waiter. In a single step he reaches the table, bows with an ostentatious flourish, and pours the bubbly into the water glass in front of Geralt. 

Geralt cannot help but laugh. Whatever they’d done, it was turning out to be one of the silliest and sweetest things he’d ever been subjected to. “What’s happened that deserves all this?” he asks.

Jaskier gives him a peck on the cheek. “Nothing much, lo-” Surprise flashes in his blue eyes, and he coughs, interrupting whatever else he was going to say. His whole face goes pink, down to his neck, and Geralt figures it must be from the coughing.

“You okay?”

“Yes, definitely, absolutely okay. Dinner time!” Flustered, he retreats to Ciri by the stove, bringing Geralt’s plate with him. Geralt gets a glimpse of their large soup pot steaming away on the stove, then a few small loaves of bread. There’s clanking and sawing and finally Jaskier turns around. In a few steps he’s back with the plate.

A perfect loaf of bread sits in the middle, the crispy, golden top carved away to make a bowl, and it’s filled with a delicious-smelling stew, dark and hearty and full of beef and vegetables. The bread from the loaf has been set to the side for dipping, fluffy and perfect. He can’t help but breathe deep, savouring the amazing smells.

“This is…” He wants to say something more, but he’s speechless, and can only gesture, vaguely and open-palmed, at the dish in front of him. Not once has anyone done something like this for him. He doesn’t even think he’s had handmade stew, ever.

Ciri and Jaskier join him at the table with their bread bowls and stew. Geralt just shakes his head in minor awe at Jaskier, who looks so happy and hopeful. “Well, dig in. I hope you like it,” he says.

The first spoonful is so savoury it hits Geralt in the jaw and makes him salivate. “Good god,” he mutters, and starts dipping in with the bread with vigour. Ciri is so pleased with the result she’s bouncing in her chair. Jaskier’s head tilts back with a pleased little moan which Geralt relishes as much as the food. “Like, tasting it before we put it all together, I knew it was going to be good. But all together, this is my crowning achievement of food. If only I could make this goodness into an album.”

“Titled Bread Bowl,” Geralt says around a mouthful.

“The first song would be like… Stewin’ Over my Strings,” Ciri chimes in.

Jaskier chokes a little, trying not to laugh and inhale his food.

“Next is Loaf of Love.” Geralt sees Jaskier turn bright red, right down to his chest, still coughing, and laughs a little at the other man’s pained grin. There’s a fullness sitting in his chest, bright and soft and right next to his heart, beating a little too fast at their words and shared smiles. There’s still that nagging thought in his head from the other day, but for now he can ignore it. Ciri is grinning away and stuffing her face, Jaskier is smiling shying at his food, glancing occasionally back at him, and Geralt has never quite felt so at peace.

Eventually they finish, Ciri gladly clearing their plates, and just as Geralt goes to stand, Jaskier tuts at him. He quirks an eyebrow at the finger Jaskier waves in his face.

“Just one more thing,” he says, and goes to the stove, opening the oven. The smell is recognizable in an instant. Spicy cinnamon, sweet vanilla, and tart apples waft from the pie Jaskier pulls from the oven, previously obscured by the aroma of the stew.

“You’re kidding me,” Geralt says, admiring the dessert placed in the centre of the table. Jaskier also retrieves a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, and proceeds to dish out the treat, which tastes as amazing as the stew. He manages to basically inhale it despite how full the stew made him, a perfect complement to dinner.

“Is there a reason for all this?” he asks finally, leaning as far back as his chair will allow.

Jaskier fiddles with his fork, not quite able to look up. “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for me these past few weeks. Both of you, for putting up with me.”

“Nothing to put up with,” Geralt says gently.

Ciri nods. “It’s been really fun having you here. It’d be nice if you could stay.”

“Now, Ciri-”

“Well, y’know-”

Both men interrupt each other, and Cirilla, eyeing them both suspiciously and they pointedly stare at anything other than each other, stands and takes her plate to the sink. “I’m gonna go to bed. Thank you for dinner, Jaskier,” she gives him a hug, “G’night dad,” and hugs him as well before disappearing down the hall.

Laughing, Jaskier collects their plates and leaves them on the counter. “I’m very glad that everything turned out so well,” he says, nervously adjusting the dirty dishes on the counter.

Geralt’s chair squeaks as he stands, he’s moving without really thinking to, and he embraces Jaskier from behind, pulling their bodies together and burying his face in the crook of his neck. Jaskier’s hands land on his and squeeze.

“I really do want to thank you. I couldn’t have had a better place to stay. Or a better host.” His heart is thumping fast under his hand, and Geralt can hear the nerves in his voice. He plants a soft, lingering kiss to the rapid pulse of Jaskier’s neck and hopes it’s just from their closeness.

“I’m more than happy to have you here,” he says.

Jaskier laughs. “You sure weren’t at first.”

The wry tone pulls a chuckle from him as well. “I warmed up faster than you might think,” he responds. Possibly faster than he himself knew.

Turning, Jaskier faces him, planting his hands on Geralt’s sides. Slowly they fiddle their way under the hem of his shirt, and his nails gently scratch the sensitive skin there. A mischievous glint lights up his face.

“There’s another way I can thank you.”

***

Jaskier has barely closed the door when Geralt descends on him, pushing him against the door with his bulk and hands and lips, growling his pleasure at having Jaskier to himself. Jaskier finds he can barely catch his breath already, and Geralt is everywhere, nails on his skin, teeth at his neck. His thigh pushes between his own, and Jaskier can’t help grinding against it, craving the hot spark of feeling, and Geralt rolls his own hips into him.

Clumsily, Jaskier fumbles with Geralt’s shirt, trying to push it up off the man. Geralt helpfully steps back and whisks it off, pausing when Jaskier’s eyes drag over his frame, greedy and eager. It almost feels impossible that Geralt exists, standing before him, frankly glorious and powerful, but so gentle, too, his kindness once hidden deep inside himself. He pushes off the door and plasters himself against Geralt, who’s laughter rumbles through him, against his lips as they kiss.

Geralt makes swift work of the buttons on Jaskier’s shirt, despite him crushing their faces together, Jaskier gently forcing his tongue past Geralt’s lips and earning a groan for his efforts. Once his arms are free again, the shirt flung somewhere in Geralt’s room, Jaskier’s fingers start unbuckling Geralt’s belt.

“Wait,” Geralt says, capturing his hands.

“What is it?”

“Let me.” Geralt undoes the simple fly of Jaskier’s jeans, catching his eye, pupils blown, as he slides his jeans down his hips and to the floor. In the moonlight filtering through the curtains, Geralt’s eyes are like suns, eclipsed by sheer _want_. Stepping out of his discarded jeans, Jaskier lets Geralt push him back onto the bed, flopping onto it when the backs of his knees hit the mattress.

Sinking to his knees, Geralt runs his hands up Jaskier’s inner thighs, the light touch causing him to shudder, his cock twitching. “This okay?” Geralt asks, kissing the soft skin as his nails trace light circles in the sensitive dip of his hip.

“Oh-ho yes, Geralt, more than okay,” he says, half laughing and hoarse. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to twitch away or into Geralt’s light, ticklish touches, but he knows what’s coming.

Geralt sits up a little more, and Jaskier hears the click of the lube cap. He doesn’t want to sit up, and keeps his arm over his mouth in anticipation. They can’t be loud.

A hand wraps around his erection, slick and still slightly cold from the lube, and the fingers of Geralt’s other hand gently press against his hole, preparing him. Jaskier keeps his eyes shut, revelling in the pressure of Geralt’s skilled hands and that slow, delicious build of pleasure. When a finger slips in, he muffles his groan against his arm, panting at the steady, relentless rhythm Geralt sets.

He hears shuffling, and Geralt lets go of his cock. The petulant whine he makes would almost be embarrassing, but he feels Geralt lean over the bed, his hair skimming over his abdomen and a sudden wet heat envelops him and another finger enters.

“Oh _holy_ fuck!” Jaskier moans, arching into the heat. Glancing up, he sees Geralt’s mouth on him, his head bobbing. An incoherent string of cursing, poorly muzzled, trips from his lips as he _feels_ Geralt laugh, the vibration sending stars across his vision, his hips stuttering up against his will, onto the fingers fucking into him.

Geralt licks a teasing line up the underside of Jaskier’s erection and he _moans_ , loud, biting his arm to try and silence himself. He’s going to be a puddle at this rate, frustratingly quickly, the lovely intensity rising with every pump of Geralt’s fingers.

“Geralt,” he says, barely a whisper, and those beautiful yellow eyes flash up to his. There’s a wolfish smirk on Geralt’s face and he simply hums in acknowledgement, and he stares up at Jaskier, teasing and expectant. He takes a moment to just look; the dimpled chin resting on his leg, the open, uncensored enjoyment playing on his face, silver hair completely dishevelled. He can’t help reaching down to tuck some stray strands behind Geralt’s ear, his heart thumping loudly in his chest with so much more than just desire and adrenaline at the way his eyes soften at the touch. He’d almost said it at dinner, and hearing Geralt say it, even as a really bad pun, made butterflies flutter in his gut. Jaskier so desperately hopes Geralt feels the same way. He wants to stay. But, first...

“Get up here and fuck me already.”

He leads the older man up the bed by his chin, who, once he’s caged Jaskier in, snarls and captures his lips in a bracing, biting kiss. Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s skin and he hears the other man finally free his own cock with a satisfied sigh. Impatient, Geralt manhandles Jaskier into place, making him laugh at the ease with which Geralt can lift him. Slicking himself with more lube, Geralt leans down and kisses him, then pauses.

“You’re ready?” His voice is rougher with lust and sends a shot of pleasure straight through Jaskier.

“Yes, Geralt, yes, _please_ -” he moans, as Geralt pushes slowly into him, stretching exquisitely, the perfect pleasure-pain. They’re both gasping by the time Geralt is buried to the hilt, savouring the connection before he pulls back, thrusting slowly.

All Jaskier can do is pant and grasp at whatever he can hold, an arm, a pillow, little ah!’s escaping him each time Geralt rocks back into him, gradually fucking him faster. His pace is ruthless, his large hands keeping his hips steady. Jaskier manages to babble curses and praise, until Geralt shuts him up with his mouth, licking in hungrily. On one thrust he hits that amazing spot, and Jaskier feels the jolt through his whole body. “Aw fuck!” he groans, too loud, barely feeling Geralt biting his way down his neck.

Geralt’s hand is once again around his cock, pumping him in time with his thrusts, which start losing their rhythm. He’s so close. “Geralt, oh _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier whines, clawing at his back. Geralt is panting hard, grunting against the pleasure building in them both.

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Geralt pleads, a gravelly whisper in his ear, and Jaskier comes, arching, crying out, clenching around Geralt’s thickness and he feels his hips jerk into him, silently coming not long after.

Slipping out of Jaskier, Geralt flops down beside him, chest heaving. Jaskier wipes himself with some handy tissues, then sprawls across Geralt’s body, sighing contentedly as the high wears off but the pleasant static in his head remains. They lie there together, coming down together, breathing nearly in sync. A strong arm wraps lazily around his waist and he snuggles a little closer, listening to Geralt’s heartbeat slow. He loves these moments, where his brain isn’t racing and his nervous chattering stops, and Geralt is so relaxed that he doesn’t hide his emotions behind so many walls.

Without thinking, he starts humming a tune, letting his fingers dance over Geralt’s chest like he’s plucking out a tune. If he were to write a song about Geralt, it would be something twangy, folk-country, sweet and bitter like dark chocolate. Jaskier has written songs about lovers before, but this would be different. Sincere. He gets lost in his mind, composing chords and lyrics, often about Geralt’s eyes or amazing ass, and doesn’t notice the slowly growing crease in the other man’s brow. 

“Jaskier.”

“Mhm?” Glancing up, he sees that Geralt has his face turned away, looking out the window, but there’s tension to the corner of his lips, in his jaw. His heart sinks. “What is it, Geralt?”

“Why didn’t you tell Yen about us?”

“What? Why?” Geralt’s brows twitch down, frowning, and Jaskier props himself up to try and see him better. Obstinately, he keeps looking out the window, clearly grumpy. “I didn’t know if you wanted her to know or not. We haven’t exactly talked about… this.” He gestures a little between the both of them, then hesitantly rests his hand back on Geralt’s chest, trying to find comfort.

“Why wouldn’t I want her to know?”

He sputters, shrugging. “Well, I don’t know, Geralt. You aren’t the most forthcoming person,” he says, instantly regretting the frustration in his voice. Sighing, he starts to say, “Look, I-”

But Geralt interrupts him, pulling his arm back from under Jaskier’s body and sitting up against the headboard. Still he refuses to look his way. “You want to go back to Vancouver.” It was more of a statement than a question

“Yes, eventually, I still have things there, but-” Geralt’s face closes off. Jaskier can see the shutters close behind his eyes and feels the panic rise in his throat. “Geralt-“

“Get out of my room, Jaskier.”

“If you’d just _listen_ -”

“Go!” Geralt snarls, whipping his head around to fix him with the worst glare, the ugliest look he’s ever seen on that handsome face that had only moments ago been so happy.

Flinching away, Jaskier nearly leaps off the bed in his haste to leave and gathers his clothes. Yanking his pants on, he has to keep his back to Geralt. He can’t let him see the tears stinging his eyes. “Fucking fine, Geralt,” he bites out past the lump in his throat, “I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

It takes a lot of willpower to not slam the door behind him. Instead of heading straight to his own room, he ducks down the hall to grab the phone first. Then, safely inside his - no, the guest room, he dials the number. After she’s finished complaining about being woken up, Jaskier says, voice thick with frustration and sadness, “Yennefer, I need to leave. Tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for your patience and for reading!!!


	9. Don’t Be Down, Girl, This World is a Bummer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier leaves when all he wants is to stay, Geralt has Regrets, and Yennefer and Ciri talk some sense into him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo, uh, this isn’t the last chapter! Turns out there are A Lot more scenes I need to write and this is already nearly double what I normally post. I think rounding it all out to 10 chapters is a good thing, and I hope y’all agree.
> 
> Chapter title is from Queen of the Rodeo by Orville Peck.

A car door slams shut outside, jolting Geralt awake. Distantly, he thinks he hears Ciri call Jaskier’s name. Why does she sound worried? He burrows into the blankets, thinking his alarm hasn’t gone off yet, there’s no reason to be awake. The car engine starts, though, and in hearing it drive away he lifts his head a bit from his pillow, blinking owlishly through his messed-up hair. What was going on?

The front door slams closed, rattling the house, and he bolts upright. Footsteps pound down the hall and his own door crashes open. Ciri is standing there, ruddy-faced and furious, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finally he remembers last night, his heart sinking in the sudden pit of his stomach.

“Cirilla, what’s wrong?” He’s thankful he had the sense to put on pajama pants last night as he swings out of bed, walking towards her. But she flinches back.

“What did you do!?” she demands, her fists shaking at her sides.

He shakes his head, taken aback by her tone. Not once has she spoken to him like this. “Excuse me?”

“Jaskier said you didn’t want him here anymore, dad! That he had to go back, he’d ‘overstayed his welcome.’ What did you say!?” The crack in her voice sends a sharp pain through his heart, adding to the slow, poisonous dread growing in him. He hadn’t meant for Jaskier to go back to Vancouver. He just… he didn’t know what he’d wanted. To stop getting his hopes up, maybe. Guess he got what he wanted, and maybe it was better it happened now than a year or more in the future, when Jaskier was too entrenched in his- Cirilla’s life. Hopefully she’ll forgive him, eventually.

“Princess-” He hoped her old nickname would help, but her face darkened further.

“ _No!_ ” She turns and slams her bedroom door closed behind her. 

“Fuck.”

The heartbroken sobbing starts not long after, and Geralt sags onto his bed, almost wishing he could do the same. _It’s for the best,_ he tells himself, and he hopes he’ll believe it soon, too. But the shrill buzzing of his alarm breaks his silence, and, scrubbing his hands over his face, he starts getting ready to face the rest of this miserable day.

***

Jaskier watches the edge of the ranch fade from view from the taxi’s back window, the tree line devouring the golden, gentle hills before he really felt ready to let it go. Sniffling, he faces forward again, trying to subtly rub the tears from his raw eyes, but the image of Ciri watching the taxi leave is burned into his head and sends a fresh wave of pain through him.

She’d heard him leaving when he’d accidentally bumped his guitar case on his bedroom door frame. Quite frankly, he’s surprised he hadn’t woken Geralt up as well, but he’s also very thankful he hadn’t. Jaskier was almost out the front door when he heard her speak.

“What’s going on?”

Steeling himself, he turns to her with the best smile he can manage, but from the concern on her face he guesses he didn’t manage it well at all. Likely doesn’t help that his eyes are still red from crying all night. Adjusting his paltry belongings over his shoulder, he says, “I’m sorry, kiddo, but I have to head out now.”

“Where?” she yawns, following his retreat out the door when he sees the taxi pull up.

“I’m going back to Vancouver, Ciri.”

Shock, confusion, and sadness all fight over Ciri’s poor, sleepy face. “No, but- no, Jaskier, you can’t go.” A pout starts forming and he feels his eyes tearing up again.

“I’m so sorry, your dad… well, he told me I should be going now. I may have overstayed my welcome, I think. Don’t want to keep imposing.”

Ciri stumbles into him, her hands clutching the back of his shirt. “No,” she mumbles, unsteadily, into his shirt. He can feel her tears soaking through and swallows back his own as best he can while squeezing her back. He had really hoped he could leave without this, but he’s also glad he could say goodbye to the sweetest kid he’s ever met.

“Listen, Ciri. You make sure your stubborn oaf of a dad takes care of himself, okay? I know you’ll take care of each other but he’s…”

“An asshole.” She says it so plainly and with such frustration that he sobs out a laugh.

“Yeah, kinda.”

Her shoulders hitch and he hears her really start to cry now. “I love you, Jaskier. You’re a good dad,” she says and it takes everything in him to keep from breaking down right there, he doesn’t even notice himself shaking.

“Oh, I love you too, Ciri,” he says, voice thick. Smoothing down her fine blonde hair, he pulls gently away from her. “If you need me, just call. I left a note for Ge- for your dad, with my number, just in case I left something.” It was a little bit of a lie, he’d written it down as a half-mad hope that Geralt would call him, maybe, when their feelings aren’t running so high. But if she can use it too, then what’s the harm?

The taxi driver calls his name, and Jaskier says, “One second!” He gives Ciri another quick hug. “Goodbye, kiddo.”

“Bye…” Ciri is shaking a little and Jaskier thinks about how cruel it is to endure two heartbreaks in one morning. Getting into the back of the taxi, he hears Ciri say his name, but just buries his face in his hands. He can’t bear looking back. Desperately he hopes Geralt will do something dashing and romantic, like running in front of the taxi to stop him from leaving, but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, Jaskier now watches the countryside fly by from the tiny window of the small plane taking him back to the coast, wishing he could have stayed and hoping his heart stops breaking by the time he lands.

***

It takes a full week of trying to wear Cirilla down before she finally stops leaving the room when Geralt enters. Even the times he’s found her in the stables, talking to Dara and saying hello to the animals, she stops whatever she’s doing and leaves. He feels a stab of guilt and pain in his heart each time it happens, but he knows Ciri’s aware of what she’s doing. He’s seen her glance back at him, the remorse in her own face quickly replaced with stubborn anger.

One day, Dara actually breaks though his fear of Geralt to pat him consolingly on the arm. Geralt thinks he must look particularly distraught, because the boy says, “It’ll be okay, Geralt. She just has a lot to think about.”

“Thanks, kid,” he says with a sigh. Not for the first time he wonders how Jaskier would’ve handled this, but as he does every time, Geralt does his best to ignore that thought. He did find the note Jaskier left, along with the neatly folded bed sheets to be washed. He’d written his number down once, scratched it out, then wrote it again. It hurt too much to hold, much less look at, the shame and regret and anger swirling inside him too fast to parse, so Geralt just left it on the empty dresser of the empty room and collected the sheets, which still smelled of Jaskier, for the laundry.

At the end of Ciri’s week of silence, Geralt finds her waiting for him in Roach’s stall after a trail ride. She’s sitting on the square bale, arms crossed, frowning at the ground. After a pause, he leads Roach in and starts taking off her tack, slowly, giving his daughter time to speak what’s on her mind. 

She looks a lot like the pictures he remembers of himself as a kid, the few that survived his many trips between foster homes: blond and stubbornly sullen. Geralt wants to laugh, but doesn’t want to drive her off again.

“Why?” she finally asks, with a gravitas that could rival his own.

Closing the stall door so Roach won’t wander off, Geralt takes a hesitant seat beside Ciri, who budges over enough to let him sit. It’s still a very tight squeeze, but she leans into him and he wraps an arm over her shoulders with no small amount of relief.

“You’re gonna have to expand on that, Ciri,” he says.

“Why’d you make Jaskier leave? Why did you keep pushing him away?”

He sighs. “Pretty big questions.”

“Yeah, well.” She doesn’t continue and keeps glaring at their feet.

“I didn’t want him to leave. I just… wanted him to go back to his room.”

“Why?”

“We argued. Or, I-” Geralt sighs again, letting his head thunk against the wood of the stall wall. “He didn’t tell Yen about us, and I thought it meant he didn’t care. I saw the laptop on the table that day, and maybe he was looking for apartments-“

“He was looking up recipes!”

Geralt wants to smack himself. _Of course he was,_ he thinks. And, looking back, Jaskier hadn’t said that he was going to go back to Vancouver permanently, just that he still had things there. Scratch that, he wants to punt himself into the sun.

“Why didn’t you just ask him?”

He gives her a self-deprecating look, which she just frowns at. Clearly he won’t be getting any sympathy. “The only people who’ve stuck around in my life are you and Yen,” Geralt says, looking at his scarred and calloused hand. “It’s easier, safer, to expect others to leave.”

Ciri puts one of her hands over his. “Jaskier wanted to stay,” she says, her voice small, “I really miss him.” The wobble in her tone pulls out a fresh wave of shame, and Geralt closes his eyes against the hurt it brings. A vicious voice in his head wants to say, _Well, he left anyway_ , but he has to force it down.

“I know, princess.”

“Maybe he’ll come back if you ask,” she hedges, glancing at him expectantly.

“I think I did too much damage for that, Ciri, I’m sorry.” And Geralt is truly sorry. He wishes that his temper and bad, old habits hadn’t gotten in the way. Ciri obviously adored Jaskier, and he’d been so… happy.

It reminded him of when Ciri had started to open up to him when she was six, after Calanthe had died and left her in his charge. It had taken a year, but when she began to talk with him, just about her day at school or how she missed the horses, he’d felt such an unexpected joy that his daughter finally seemed to like him. It was a little different with Jaskier, the feelings much more muddled and tainted by his own distrust, but the moments in bed together, or sitting at the table, joking around in the stable… those were easy, blissful. They were what he could’ve had.

Ciri looks thoughtful, but seems to have gotten the answers she wanted. Roach nickers at them, them bumps her nose against Geralt’s head hard enough to knock him against the wall. The giggle from Ciri was worth the brief sting.

“Alright, alright. I know when I’m being ganged up on,” he grumbles, and goes back to tending Roach.

For the rest of the day, Cirilla was shadowing him. It wasn’t unusual for the season; now that school was over, she would help with the farm, checking on the animals and cleaning paddocks and stalls. But she seemed to have one more thing to say, which she kept putting off. Geralt saw her open her mouth to say something, only to change her mind. 

“What is it?” he asks once, and all he gets is a shrug and a very unconvincing innocent look for an answer. 

So he waits it out again, until the end of the day when, as they’re sitting in the living room reading, he hears a car driving up to the house. Scowling, he sits up, watching the dark car come up the drive. It’s too dark out to recognize the vehicle, so he gets up, opens the front door, and waits for the driver to emerge.

The man who gets out is dressed in a familiar uniform, and opens the back door for the passenger, who is, both surprisingly and not, Yennefer. She practically glides out of the back seat and up the porch steps.

“Yen.”

“Hello, Geralt. It’s good to see you,” she says, giving him her usual greeting by kissing his cheeks, and he does his best to not shrink away. Instead, he rolls his eyes.

She holds his face for a moment, looking suspicious, examining him and making him thoroughly uncomfortable. He hated being under her scrutiny. “You look tired. Any reason why?”

Geralt gently removes her hands from his face. “No. Why are you here?”

“I figured it was time for a house call,” she says, and breezes past him into the house. “Cirilla?”

“Yen!”

He hears Ciri collide with Yennefer, both of them laughing, and lets a lopsided smile curl his mouth. Turning, he sees Ciri smiling sheepishly at him from the crook of Yen’s arm around her. With a cocked eyebrow, he asks, “Did you do this?”

Ciri just shrugs, feigning innocence. Figures.

The car drives off behind him, and Geralt wonders what he’s gotten himself into. Back inside, he follows the two tricksters into the living room, where Yen makes herself right at home.

“Coffee?” Geralt asks.

“Yes, dear.”

He busies himself in the kitchen while the two catch up, Ciri chatting Yen’s ear off about the end of school, Dara, and the farm. Secretly Geralt is a little glad she showed up; ever since they stopped being involved, Ciri’s missed having her around a lot. But he dreads the real reason for Yen’s visit, and he thinks he has a pretty good guess at what it is.

“Don’t just stand there avoiding us and zoning out, come sit down,” Yennefer orders and, sighing, Geralt does as he’s told. 

The trio chat for a few hours about nothing much, Geralt contributing the occasional hum or word as Yennefer tells Ciri about her latest role as some kind of witch in a fantasy movie. He tends to zone out when she explains her job, not caring much about the ins and outs of the film industry, but he can see why it appeals to her. Some years ago Geralt wished she could’ve given it up for him, but things were healthier this way and they’d each moved on a while ago. It still dazzles Ciri though.

Eventually Cirilla starts yawning, unable to keep her eyes open, and Geralt realizes it’s nearly midnight. “Time for bed,” he announces, and she grumbles half-heartedly as she says goodnight.

“And then there were two,” Yen says idly once Ciri’s door closes.

He snorts. “That’s never been a good thing.”

“Certainly not for the two of us,” she snarks back, and they both chuckle, but she continues, “Though you and a certain someone else _were_ -”

“Don’t, Yen.”

“Oh, don’t snap at me. You knew exactly why I came here.” The look Yennefer gives him would freeze a lesser man. Geralt just glares back, lips pursed.

“‘House call,’ my ass,” he grumbles.

Yen folds her arms, exasperated. “You need some tough fucking love right now, Geralt. I think you made a mistake, and you pushed that poor man away because you’re too scared-“ Geralt growls her name in warning, but she ignores him, “-too scared to let people in and change you and to let yourself have a good thing for once in your fucking life.”

“I let Ciri in,” he says petulantly, but it’s a weak rebuttal and he knows it.

“You _had_ to, and it was wonderful for you anyway. But for this, for Jaskier, you have to choose, and I think you should go crawling back to that obnoxious musician and beg for his forgiveness.”

“And what makes you think he’d even take me back? I’m a sour old man living in the middle of nowhere, he needs to get his whole career back on track. He doesn’t need this,” he growls, gesturing at the modest house.

She rolls her eyes so hard she could have fallen off the couch. “You idiot. You aren’t old, and it isn’t this-” she flaps her hands dismissively at the room, mocking him more than a little, “-he wants or needs, it’s you.”

Geralt grimaces and looks away, almost as if he’d been slapped. “He doesn’t. He deserves better,” he says, low and full of venom. 

“Then fucking be better. And you have no idea what he wants, because apparently you didn’t bother to ask. He was going to ask to stay until you bullied him out of here.”

He crosses his arms and closes his eyes, trying to hold back the feelings fighting each other inside him. _He wanted to stay,_ he thinks, the phrase on incessant repeat in his head. Of course he fucked it up, he has a particular penchant for doing that it seems. Geralt thinks about how happy Jaskier looked that night, laughing and joking and fitting in perfectly, how dull it seemed without him around, and sighs.

“Don’t go slinking away into your self-hatred,” Yen says, and Geralt huffs a laugh.

A question pops into his head, so he asks, “How do you know what he wanted, anyway?”

“I picked him up from the airport and drove him to the hotel he’s staying at. And I’ve been keeping an eye on him, when I can.”

“...How is he?”

She pauses, examining her hands in her lap. “I don’t think he’s doing too well, Geralt.”

***

The smile he gives Yenefer is strained, but Jaskier lets her hug him at the airport arrivals gate. The gesture is quite the surprise, but also pretty welcome. The flight back almost felt longer than the drive up north, despite it being only a couple hours instead of seven. He’s just glad to have a distraction, finally, from his thoughts.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, leading him to her car. He didn’t have luggage to pick up, so he’s grateful to be moving on from the bustle of YVR.

“Tired,” he laughs. “I’m looking forward to getting a bit more sleep.”

Yennefer hums, her eyes keenly darting over his face. He does his best to not look away, to keep the thin smile on his lips. Seemingly satisfied, she ushers him into the black car and they drive off into Vancouver proper.

“I’ve paid for your stay at the hotel for two weeks,” she begins, and Jaskier stammers, shocked, but she cuts off his attempted protests, “No, I won’t hear it. You asked for my help, and this is what you get. Besides, I know what it’s like to be rejected by that repressed lout.” Yennefer gives him a sly, amused look.

It isn’t a shock, in fact, he’s suspected as much, but Jaskier still feels a sharp stab of jealousy. It’s silly, but he can’t help wondering how long they’d lasted. His mind whispers, cruelly, that it must have been much longer. “Well then, uh, thank you for that,” he says, though he doesn’t really know if that should make him feel better or worse.

They go silent, and out of a need to keep himself busy, he takes out his phone and finally turns it on. He’d gotten used to keeping it off at, well, up north, but now, as it vibrates and beeps to life, he’s glad for the distraction again. Turns out Jaskier had missed a few messages. A few angry texts from his dad, though, wondering why he hadn’t been responding, made him sneer down at the screen and lock it.

“Missed much?” Yen asks.

“Not really.”

They keep driving for a while, and Jaskier starts to wonder where exactly they’re taking him. They’ve passed at least five decent, cheap hotels, but it seems they’re on their way downtown. When they pull up to one of the “low end” fancy hotels of downtown Vancouver, he’s left gaping, looking between Yennefer and the hotel.

“No, nuh-uh, there’s no way you paid for me to be here for _two weeks_.”

“Truthfully, the studio I’m working with paid for it. It’s part of my contract,” she winks. “Enjoy it while you can. Now, you need to go, I have to be on set in two hours.”

He scrambles out of the car before she pushes him out, grabs his strings from the trunk, and they drive away. Hesitantly, Jaskier walks into the shining lobby and lets the clerk check him in. His room is shockingly high up, with a _giant_ bed and even a kitchenette, and all he can do is slump onto the bed, backpack and guitar in hand.

“What a stupid day,” he says to himself. Part of him wants to cry, again, and he can feel that lump forming in his throat, the telltale hitch of his breathing, but he’s so worn down. After staying up all night, planning the trip back with Yennefer, getting his junk together, everything involved in leaving… Jaskier is tired, a bone-deep weariness he’s all too familiar with. Letting his bag drop, he sets his guitar case down a little more gently, slips out of his shoes, and curls up on top of the bed. Sleep finds him before he can even crawl under the covers.

Jaskier finds himself spending the next couple of days in bed, the curtains drawn over the windows. He orders room service - it’s included, apparently - when he’s hungry, which isn’t often. Using his phone, he attempts to find himself a place to live, but rentals are scarce and too expensive for him and the meagre budget he has left. After another passive-aggressive text from his dad, Jaskier finally caves and gives him a call.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

He sighs. “Yes, hello father, how nice to hear from you too,” he quips.

“You really expect a friendly hello after you’ve been out of contact for four weeks? Your mother was worried sick.”

“See, if you’d checked your email, you’d know _why_ I couldn’t text you back from where I was.”

“Oh, and you couldn't have called from wherever you were? And how were we to believe that you just _up_ and _left_ for some stranger holed away in the countryside?”

Yes, Jaskier could have called, but he hadn’t really wanted to when all conversations he had with his father were like this. He wasn’t a fan of being guilt-tripped and yelled at. “If you had just a little trust in me-“

“Bullshit. You were off getting high again, and now you’re crawling back.” The sheer derision in his dad’s voice set Jaskier’s teeth on edge. He didn’t even notice the steel-wire tension in his shoulders.

“No I fucking wasn’t. I’m still clean, you ass, and _you_ texted _me_. I cannot believe this!”

He hangs up and hurls his phone into the chair across the room, where it bounces and lands on the floor with a dull thump. Seems very few people, if any, had trust in him. Geralt didn’t, that’s for sure. That thought sends him straight into the bed again, where he twists himself into knots trying not to cry. He’s too tired, but not enough to sleep.

Grabbing a pillow, he screams into it. There’s too much frustration and fear and not enough time to get his bearings again. Jaskier hadn’t even wanted to come back in the first place. He’d been so happy, he’d felt like he could have a chance at a home and a life again. He’d gotten his hopes up, far too high, and they came crashing right down around him. Dealing with a broken heart on top of it all was just fantastic. On the flight back, Jaskier realized he may have fallen in love with Geralt, that ridiculous, gorgeous, kindhearted man. He’d probably give anything to be back in that little ranch house, slinging hay bales and riding horses and cooking and making Geralt and Ciri laugh. 

Jaskier eventually falls asleep again, but he’s woken up by a phone call. The digital clock on the bedside table reads 8:23, but whether that’s a.m. or p.m., he has no clue. It could have been a few hours or a whole day missing, but he still feels exhausted as he stumbles over to retrieve his phone.

Answering, he croaks, “Yeah?”

“It’s lovely to hear your voice again, Jaskier,” the woman on the other end says, and a chill runs up his spine.

“Katrina, wow, hello.” Katrina Stael, whom he’d once lovingly nicknamed The Countess, was the last person he thought he’d hear from. Well, almost last. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, his tone stilted.

“I’d heard through a few grapevines that you were back in town. I was wondering if you’d like to catch up.”

“The last time we ‘caught up,’ I fell off a stage.” It was her influence that got him addicted in the first place, both to her and the heroin. But he was feeling so alone, and she was always a friendly, pretty face.

“Won’t be anything like that, I promise.”

Inhaling deeply, Jaskier says, “Yeah. Okay.”

***

The next day, Geralt is rushing to cancel the next two days of trail rides. Finally, with a few apologies, he hangs up on the last client. Yennefer has yet to get up, but Ciri is in the kitchen making them all pancakes. The smell reminds him of Jaskier and he forces back the pang of hope and worry he feels. That Yen is worried about Jaskier is more than concerning.

Going into the kitchen, gives Ciri a grateful squeeze as she diligently flips the pancakes. She’s gotten pretty good at it, too. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“Totally okay, dad, don’t worry. Yen said we’ll stay up all night watching horror movies and let all the horses loose.” The mischievous glint in her eye makes him muss up her hair and she bats him away with the spatula.

Geralt stuffs himself with pancakes as fast as possible, and then it’s time to go. Anxious energy fills him with the need to run, but at least he knows where he’ll be racing off to.

“Thank you for breakfast,” he says, kissing the top of her head, “Makes sure Yen behaves.”

Ciri giggles. “Will do. You be safe, and I love you.”

“Love you too, princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and, as always, for all of your kind, sweet, encouraging comments!!!


	10. You Belong Somewhere Close to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooohhhh my gooood, this is it!
> 
> I’ll gush more in the end notes, but I really, really hope you enjoy!
> 
> Please know, there is mild substance abuse mentioned and referenced to in this chapter. Keep yourselves safe!
> 
> Chapter title is from The Wailin’ Jenny’s cover of Wildflower by Tom Petty.
> 
> Edit: Please do check out the playlist for this fic, too! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/45O36kDej94NbSIYL5jteK?si=diY0SkfyQ9OnWSBuFyqt9w

When Katrina arrives at his room, she’s wearing this amazing floral maxi dress, so low cut it’s just bordering on scandalous. Jaskier can’t help that his eyes follow the angle down her breast, highlighted by her long, honey brown hair, and she knows it. He’s suddenly very aware of how unkempt he is.

“It’s good to see you,” she says with a smile, walking past him.

“You too, Katrina. Seems like you’re doing well,” he says. Closing the door, he follows her over to the table. He’s glad he at least tidied, not that there was much to tidy. He hadn’t let the housekeepers in to clean, but he did so little over the past few days, so it didn’t matter. The curtains were, to his credit, open, showing the wide expanse of Vancouver’s downtown, the glittering skyscrapers and distant, gentle mountains gone blue with smog and the sunset. It was a beautiful view that Jaskier privately wished he was sharing with someone else.

Gesturing dramatically at the plastic glasses by the coffee maker, he asks, “Would you like a glass of refreshing water?”

Katrina laughs, a hand held demurely over her mouth. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m sure there’s better to be had in that mini fridge there.”

“Mm, well, I don’t really drink anymore,” he says, pouring himself a glass of water before joining her at the table by the windows. Jaskier fidgets with the glass under her sceptical gaze.

“What, you’ve gone straightedge or something?” 

Her dubious look makes him bristle a little. Clearly she had no idea what he’s gone through the past year. “No, Katrina, I came out of rehab. I’d rather not go back there, so I’m just… staying away from it all.”

“Alcohol wasn’t your vice, though. Surely a little won’t hurt.” She gets up and opens the fridge herself, pulling out two tiny bottles of tequila, suspended between her perfectly manicured fingers. She sets one in front of him while cracking open her own.

“That goes on my tab, y’know,” Jaskier protests, but it suddenly feels a little feeble. He can admit, just a little, that he misses that joyful, loose feeling of being tipsy. It’s unsettlingly effective at taking the edge off his anxieties, of which he currently has many. His mind echoes Katrina’s sentiment, _surely, surely a little won’t hurt_.

Falteringly, he grabs that little bottle, cracks the seal, and takes a swig, hissing at the much too familiar burn. Katrina has a look like she’s accomplished a good deed, self-satisfied and beneficent, and pats his free hand reassuringly. “There we are, you’ll be back to yourself in no time.”

“Not too sure about that, myself,” he winces, feeling the tequila scorch through his chest.

“I really have missed you, Jaskier. Your parties were so much fun. Maybe we could get the gang back together,” she says, and her hand stays on his, her thumb brushing across his knuckles. Her dark eyes are distressingly magnetic.

As far as he knew, the gang had no interest in keeping tabs on him once he’d literally fallen off the deep end. Katrina herself hadn’t even bothered to check on him, not even while he was in the hospital. Jaskier disguises the bitter twist to his face with another gulp of alcohol. “I don’t really think I’m up for that just yet,” he admits, and pulls his hand away from her. “Kinda just got out of a… _something_ , anyway. Need a bit more time to wallow in that.”

Her eyes glint with interest. “Oh really? Do tell, who has you needing to ‘wallow’?”

Jaskier can’t help the sigh that heaves his whole body, and, with little hesitation, begins telling her about Geralt. He tells her all about his time at the ranch, and Ciri, and learning how to ride and how to make Geralt laugh (“Say something he probably won’t expect, so he’s caught off-guard, or something so cheesy he has to roll his eyes but chuckle too.”). When the buzz starts to hit him - faster than he expected - he starts to tell her about their first time together, the times they fell into bed, into each other. He ends up having to wipe away a few tears, especially when talking about their fight and the awfulness of leaving.

Katrina’s hand is on his again, at a point he can’t recall, and he’s on his second bottle, this time of the cheapest whiskey possible. Her other hand is on her cheek, like she’s listening to a sappy love story with a bad ending. Jaskier, thinking on it, admits it kind of is.

“Sounds like you loved this guy and he really burned you,” she says, after he’s finished spilling his feelings everywhere.

He chokes on a laugh and nods. “Yeah, I think I did. Do, maybe, I dunno. I just-” His head falls onto his arm and he huffs, sullen, as he stares out the windows. Night has fallen, with so many twinkling lights and the strings of traffic lights snaking their way through the grids and angles of the city. So much brighter than the ranch, but there the stars more than made up for it. “-I hate this.”

“Admittedly, I did bring a little something extra along. Maybe it’ll cheer you up for a bit.” She holds up her little clutch, wiggling it, and flicks it open. What she pulls out should have sent a shock of revulsion through him, but alcohol has dulled him. He remembers the small, discrete case from many nights, then days, of languid highs, strung out and blurry eyed on the couches of near strangers. Of a screaming crowd, too-bright spotlights, and a long, dark fall downward.

“No.”

“Really, are you sure? You’d forget about this guy, at least for a little while. Sounds like you deserve a little peace in that loud little brain of yours.” She pushes it towards him, the glitter on her nails catching the low lamplight. The case is more dented and scratched than it used to be, he thinks, as he stares at it with a mix of desire and revulsion.

***

Geralt usually marvels at how many different climates this giant province has, especially as he whips past an abandoned western film set, left to bleach in the sun in the arid band between the north and the mountains toward the coast. But he’s speeding a bit too fast for sight-seeing, the engine of his old Triumph motorcycle roaring across the baked, scrub-covered countryside. He’ll have to slow down soon, the valley and its hairpin turns fast approaching, but the thrill of being back on his bike, and seeing Jaskier again, urges him on.

It still seems like the hours crawl by, and more than once he has to stop to stretch, cursing the ache in his back. He really has turned into a bit of an old man, no matter what Yennefer says. 41 is catching up to him. At the pull-out for an old suspension bridge no longer in use, he has to sit for longer than he’d like. Geralt keeps having to unclench his fist. He’s only got a third of the way to go.

Listening idly to the pinging of the bike’s cooling engine, he wonders, not for the first time, if Jaskier will really agree to come back with him. Yennefer seemed to think so, but Geralt had his doubts. Yet, here he is, sitting on a rickety picnic table carved with names and professions of love, surrounded by evergreen coated mountains and the distant sound of rapids, restless and hoping. He’d treated Jaskier poorly, giving in to the iron doors he’d put up around his heart so long ago that snap shut at any sign of harm. A part of him still thinks that Geralt doesn’t deserve him.

Jaskier was… something else, for sure. Broad shouldered but lithe, open and easy to be with. Lively and honest and strong. His voice was smooth and sweet when he sang, rough when he needed, or when he moaned. Geralt drew a long-suffering sigh, as his mind had strayed more than once down that road, inevitably bringing him to the night he shoved Jaskier away.

Even just a week without him was dull and painful. A heaviness, mixed with guilt and disappointment and a deep streak of self-loathing, had settled in his chest. But as he sped down the highway, it grew lighter with every sign telling him how many klicks were left between him and Vancouver. 

With a huff, he stands, wincing at his protesting muscles. But he can’t keep sitting around. It’s already past noon, and there’s a couple hours left to the city. The keycard Yen gave him is burning a hole in his pocket, the address of the hotel memorized. Even if he has to get on his knees and beg to be let in, Geralt is determined to at least apologize. Jaskier deserves that, and so much more.

The sudden surge of traffic as soon as Geralt leaves Hope only gets worse the closer to the coast he gets. He flies through the swampy farmlands and their begrudgingly familiar smell, then on to the massive sprawl of towns and suburbia that surround Greater Vancouver. It’s just his luck that he gets stuck in the crush of rush hour traffic in summer.

He’s sweating under his leather jacket, and can feel it drip down his face under the visor of his helmet. Vainly Geralt worries how he’ll look when he gets to Jaskier’s hotel, his hair likely a wet rat’s nest. That’s even if Jaskier lets him in. He has a keycard, sure, but he won’t force himself in, as much as he’s worried-excited-longing to see those blue eyes again.

Yen was worried too. When she told him of Ciri’s phone call - because of course they plot his fate with each other - and that she’d said Jaskier sounded awful, he almost felt like he couldn’t breathe. It was his fault, he thought, that Jaskier was slipping again. If he’d just gotten his head out of his ass...

At a particularly long stop in traffic, he stretches out his back, his arms, wishing he could be 18 again and zipping between all these big, clumsy vehicles, riding the shoulder and kicking rocks into windshields. But he’d also rather not end up with a fine, and be delayed even more.

The crawl into the city eventually thins out, though, dispersing to other corners, and Geralt grows more and more aware of the pounding in his ears, rising faster as he navigates the grids of Vancouver proper to get to the address Yen gave him. Distantly, he’s glad it takes him nowhere near his old stomping grounds.

An orange glow taints the blue sky as the sun begins to dip below the ocean horizon, peeking through the tall office buildings and malls and boutiques. He admires the way the wisps of clouds are stained pink, but not for long, as he spots the street he needs. The hotel is very much Yen’s choice, much too upscale for Geralt, but he pulls into temporary parking and wrenches his helmet off.

Geralt takes a moment to breathe in cool sea breeze, so much saltier than he remembers, and lets himself cool down before going in. Or that’s his excuse, anyway. The worries in his head that have plagued his whole journey here are roaring in his head. What kind of state will Jaskier be in, anyway? Did he fall back into using again? Does he hate Geralt now? Is he actually okay without him, and the trip will have been for nothing?

Wiping away the cooling sweat on his brow, he tries to shake off the doubts too. There’s no point in worrying. He’s here now, and he has to face it all. Swinging off his bike, he stalks into the lobby, flashing the keycard to the hesitant clerk with a determined glare, and claims an elevator. The keycard beeps and allows him to press the button for Jaskier’s floor.

For each floor up, Geralt takes four deep breaths. By the time the doors open, his resolve is set. By the time he reaches Jaskier’s door, half of it has crumbled away again. But still he knocks on the door.

***

Those sparkly fingers wiggle the case in the middle of the table. A high would be pretty nice right now; a chance to forget the stress and anxiety and heartbreak. And Jaskier hates that he’s heartbroken. It’s fucking awful. He’s had relationships much longer than his and Geralt’s and felt much less when they ended. He feels like a sucker, letting himself fall for a guy with the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. That’s unfair to Geralt, though, once you see how he is with Ciri, but Jaskier hurts. He’s allowed to be a little petty.

Getting high _would_ feel nice. That euphoric rush a relief, mind-numbing and dizzying and that slow, slow pull down into blissed-out half-awareness. He remembers having compared it to feeling like a tortoise that found a particularly big, juicy patch of grass to eat in a great big sunbeam. Never mind that he had no idea what tortoises ate. Never mind that coming out of it was nauseating, feeling like some grotesque and sweaty creature with sludge-clogged joints and breath that would rot a butterfly. Then the incessant search for more just to feel better for a few more hours.

 _I can’t let them see me like that,_ he thinks, though it’s likely he’ll never see Geralt and Cirilla ever again. But he clings to it like a shield against those pretty nails and pretty eyes and that gruesome case.

“I know a good rehab centre, Katrina. The therapists they keep on hand do a pretty good job,” Jaskier says quietly, examining her. Despite how glamourous she looks, she’s thinner than he remembers, her collarbones stark under the thin straps of her dress, and while he can’t see any new track marks in the bend of her arm, he knows there are other, more discreet places to shoot up.

She snatches her hand back like she’s been stung, and swipes the case back. “That’s all bullshit, Jaskier. I mean, look at you: you’re barely hanging on by a thread. What the fuck happened to being _fun_?” Angrily, she stuffs the case back into her clutch.

“It isn’t bullshit. I learned a lot there, though I guess some of it didn’t stick,” he says, tapping a nail on the empty whiskey bottle. “And is it fun, really?” Jaskier thinks about racing across fields on Cedar, Geralt urging Roach to keep up, helping Ciri learn to cook. And while mucking stables out isn’t great, it’s better than being so out of your mind all you can do is lie down on the nearest flat surface in a haze of drugs.

“At least I still have friends, Jaskier. All you’re left with is yourself and your shitty little pity party,” she spits.

“They aren’t friends if they only think you’re fun when you’re drugged out of your fucking mind. How friendly are they when exactly zero percent of you came to see me after I fucking _fell off a stage_!? Because of _your_ drugs! I was hoping so desperately, for months, that you would come visit me. Not once…” Enraged, he crunches the whiskey bottle in his hand, the plastic biting into his skin. A month ago he probably wouldn’t have been able to do that. 

Katrina haughtily flicks her hair from her face, stubbornly not meeting his stare. The low lighting brings out the hollows of her cheeks, and Jaskier feels a stab of knowing empathy and pity. When his parents found out, reamed him out for his addiction, he hadn’t been able to listen either.

“Well if that’s the case, I’ll find my ‘shitty’ fun somewhere else, then,” she sneers, standing.

“You should go home, and throw that damn case away.”

“Whatever, killjoy.” She storms out of the room with a sour glare and a whirl of highlighted hair. The slam of the door barely makes him flinch and, dully, he reaches for another bottle of alcohol at random and takes it to bed.

At some ungodly hour, his phone rings. Again. He mumbles something to himself about how people _text_ nowadays, and without checking the screen - just glancing at it sends an ice pick of pain through his skull - he answers.

“Hullo?”

A sniffle, then, quietly, “Jaskier?”

“Ciri?” Jaskier bolts upright, and clutches his sheets to his bare chest almost as if she’d caught him in Geralt’s bed. Luckily, that had never happened, though the thought makes him laugh at himself bitterly.

“Yeah, uhm, hi. I’m sorry, were you asleep?”

“Hey, it’s okay kiddo. Are you okay?” His heart stutters in his chest at the thought that something bad may have happened.

She sniffs again, and he can hear the stifled emotion in her voice, even though she’s speaking at a near whisper. “Y-yeah, I’m okay. I just-” Her words snag on what he thinks may be a sob, “-I really miss you.”

“Oh, Ciri…” Jaskier can feel tears stinging his tired, hungover eyes. With his knees bent to his chest, he rests his forehead against them, trying to compose himself. He swears can feel the steady crunch of the already broken shards of his heart. “I miss you too.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Dad misses you too.”

Jaskier can’t help the heavy sigh that escapes him. He dearly wants to ask how she knows, what he’s said, how he’s been. It takes more willpower than he’s willing to admit to keep from voicing those questions. Instead, he asks, “Does he know you’re calling me at-” he checks the time despite the searing headache it causes, “-2am?”

“No,” she says, stubborn teenaged anger colouring her tone, “I’m not talking to him anymore.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s not very nice. You should talk to him. He’s probably pretty sad you’re giving him the cold shoulder.”

“I guess.” She pauses, likely letting her temper calm down, then asks cautiously, “Are you okay?”

“Me? Well, I- I don’t know,” his voice cracks as that stupid lump in his throat comes back, betrayer that it is. Jaskier swallows to try and get rid of it, with little luck. “I’m hanging in there.”

Ciri hums, sounding concerned and disbelieving, and it’s too much. “I gotta go, kiddo. We should both get back to sleep. Besides, you don’t want your dad finding out about this little long-distance rendezvous,” he jokes hollowly, trying to sound more cheerful than he is.

“Okay. Please be safe, Jaskier. I love you.”

He swallows again, and has to scrunch his face to keep the tears from rolling down his face. “Love you too, Ciri. Good night,”

She says good night and hangs up, and Jaskier can’t fall asleep again for hours afterward. When he finally wakes again the next morning with the worst headache he can remember having, he checks his phone to see a flurry of texts from Yennefer telling him she’s going out of town for the weekend, and to not get up to anything while she’s gone. All he does is send her a “K.” back, and does his best to fall asleep again.

***

“I still don’t need any housekeeping, thanks!” Jaskier’s grouchy voice calls from behind the door. 

Geralt clears his throat. “Jaskier?”

There’s no response, but he thinks he hears footsteps pad up to the door. Much closer, and less loudly, he hears Jaskier’s voice again.

“Geralt?”

“Yes-”

The door whips open, and Jaskier, dressed in rumpled pyjamas and sporting the beginnings of a scraggly beard, stares at Geralt, his blue eyes wide with shock. Geralt’s heart is hammering. The bags under Jaskier’s eyes are dark and sunken, and he smells the faint stench of stale alcohol. Before he can glance down at Jaskier’s arms, the other man slams the door shut again.

Fuck.

He swears aloud too for good measure, then knocks again. “Jaskier, let me in. I want to talk to you,” he pauses, then, faintly, says, “Please.”

The door opens again, much slower, the hinges squeaking slightly. The emotions on Jaskier face are complex, shifting too much for Geralt to pin down, and he won’t meet his eye. One of his hands absently rubs his inner elbow, and Geralt can’t tell if it’s a nervous tick or his old habit come back.

“I guess you’d better come in, or the neighbours might get a bit tetchy,” Jaskier says, stepping aside to let him in. Carefully, Geralt slips past him. The room smells stale as well, and the drawn curtains let little of the reddening sunset through. With few lights on, it’s gloomy and almost dingy. He kicks something, and sees a tiny, crunched up bottle of whisky bounce away from his boot. There are more, clumsily lined up on the small table at the other end of the room. No wonder he smells alcohol. Shit.

“So, uh, welcome to my room. It’s not much, seeing as you didn’t exactly give me any notice. Didn’t really have time to tidy, so please don’t mind the mess. Uh, so, you look… interesting. Is that a motorcycle helmet?” Jaskier babbles as he closes the door, his arms wrapped tightly over his chest and keeping his distance from Geralt.

Geralt lays the helmet on the bed, glancing over his shoulder at Jaskier. “Are you alright?” His worried tone may have come off as angry, but he’s too wound up to temper it. His worst fear might have come true.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just, y’know, basically homeless and jobless and running out of money and heart-” Jaskier cuts himself off, “Actually, no, you don’t get to know. Why are you here, Geralt?” He glares at him, wary and defensive, rightfully so.

He sighs, turning to Jaskier and trying to put aside his worry again. “Yen told me you weren’t doing well.”

“No shit,” Jaskier snaps. He leans against the desk on the other wall, arms still crossed, and Geralt can't help but feel awful for the state he’s in. In the month they’d spent together, he had never seen Jaskier so ungroomed and worn down.

Finding the right words is hard, Geralt has clearly never been good at it. He wants to say everything, but can’t figure out how. While he’s struggling, Jaskier’s face grows more and more sour.

“If you came here to stare, then you can fuck right off again. I can kick you out too.” The petty bitterness rips into Geralt.

“I didn’t want you to leave!” He barks.

“Could have fooled me!”

Geralt growls, dragging a hand over his face. “Fuck, Jaskier. I just- I’m sorry! I thought you wanted to leave! That the dinner was a goodbye, and you said you needed to come back here and get your shit, I- I shut down.”

Jaskier is unreadable again, but he looks unsteady, his anger shaken. In two quick strides, Geralt closes the distance between them. Almost out of instinct, he unwinds one of Jaskier’s arms, gently, and takes his hand between his own. Geralt keeps his gaze down at that hand, which doesn’t tense or pull away at his touch, and a little hope blooms in him. “I thought you wanted to go. I didn’t want you to leave me,” he says, rumbling low in his chest.

“Geralt, you can’t just… again, you’re cold one moment then hot the next, you can’t keep closing me out before I’ve even finished speaking.” Jaskier clenches his hand, but still leaves it in Geralt’s reverent grasp.

“I know. It was unkind. I am sorry.” He lets a thumb trace over Jaskier’s knuckles, finding a freckle on his ring finger he’d never noticed before.

Sighing, Jaskier says softly, “I was going to ask you if I could stay. That’s what the dinner was for, other than to thank you for everything. I really wanted to stay.”

The misery in Jaskier’s voice makes Geralt wince, his eyes screwed shut at his own stupidity. But he feels Jaskier’s fingers wrap around his hand, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” he says, again, then touches his forehead to Jaskier’s. “Please come home.”

He hears Jaskier sniff, and glances down to see tears rolling down his face. “You can’t do this again, okay? You broke my damn heart,” he says, voice thick.

Geralt nods against Jaskier’s forehead and brings a hand up to wipe away a tear. “Broke my own heart, too. I think-” Geralt nudges his nose against Jaskier’s, bringing their mouths close, asking silently, wanting, but he has to say it first. “I love you, Jaskier.”

Muttering his name, Jaskier shoves their lips together, yanking Geralt close with his hands around his neck, demanding. Geralt groans and slips his tongue into Jaskier mouth, not caring for the staleness he tastes, just needing him. He’s flushed with heat, desire, relief, and clings to the shorter man like a lifeline, and they kiss until they’re panting.

Gasping a little, Jaskier says, “You taste like a salt lick.” Geralt chuckles and buries his face in Jaskier’s hair.

“You smell like an old bar.” Jaskier’s laughter makes him grin, he’d missed that sound so much.

“I should probably shower. I don’t think I’ve showered in, well, probably a whole week.” Geralt just hums, refusing to let go of his grip on Jaskier’s hips when he tries to pull away. “Geralt, I am so gross. Please let me get un-gross.”

“Jaskier,” he says, a little rough but hesitant, too. Jaskier hadn’t said it back. While he doesn’t want to pressure him into saying something he doesn’t mean, Geralt would at least like to know where he stood, whether Jaskier felt the same.

Realization dawns on the other man’s face, and those bright blue eyes soften. With another, shorter kiss, Jaskier says, “Of course I love you. Now come join me.” Geralt lets himself be pulled to the tiny bathroom.

***

Jaskier can’t ignore the giddy feeling under his skin, can’t stop the chant in his head - _Geralt’s here, he’s_ here _! He loves me!_ \- or the cheesy grin on his face. Geralt’s hand in his feels so right, though it’s admittedly odd to see him in this swanky hotel bathroom. Not that there’s much seeing going on.

He’s been crowded into the bathroom door while the shower water heats up, Geralt’s whole body pressed against him while he mouths and bites at his neck, a hand in his short hair pulling his chin up. Jaskier’s hands are bunched in the fabric of Geralt’s white tee, under the leather jacket that smells _so good_ next to Geralt’s skin. They’re clinging to each other like they can’t ever let go again. But Geralt’s stubble rasps painfully on his awful hermit beard. He did actually intend to shower, and the smell of leather can only do so much for a body that’s travelled and sweated in the sun all day.

“Geralt,” he rasps, having to intentionally think about uncurling each of his fingers, smoothing the shirt down. The older man just gives a low hum, his free hand now roaming down to grab his ass.

Laughing, Jaskier reluctantly pushes Geralt off him. “Come on, you grabby man. We stink. This will be a lot more pleasant once we’re not gross,” he says, giving Geralt an amused look when he sees the petulant squint in those golden eyes. “Plus, you get to see me naked, which is always a gift.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Geralt laughs, one of his rare, full laughs that brings butterflies to his stomach. 

“Fine,” Geralt replies, and he backs away with a sigh and starts stripping, no nonsense, which Jaskier hurries to copy. Really, seeing Geralt naked is a gift too, especially when he’s growing harder by the second, all planes and angles and flushed skin. With his hands on his hips, Geralt looks both exasperated and entertained at Jaskier’s blatant staring.

“I cannot believe I left,” he says, drawn magnetically back to Geralt.

“Yes, it’s my body that makes you say that,” Geralt says dryly, dodging Jaskier’s hands to get into the shower.

Jaskier pouts, but it doesn’t last as he hops into the shower and draws the curtain behind him. Miraculously they do manage to get clean, between kisses and touching and too many close calls with the very cold tile walls. Geralt’s hands are maddening and useful in turn, and Jaskier does his best to set Geralt on edge, brushing over everything sensitive but his cock, making the man shudder every time. He feels such a thrill, evoking such reactions from Geralt. They’re both achingly hard by the time the water starts to lose its heat.

“Okay, before we go any further, I have to get rid of this. It’s driving me up the wall,” he announces as he looks at his beard in the wiped-down mirror, as dried off as he possibly can be. Geralt towels off too and just nods, leaving with a kiss to his cheek, and Jaskier does his best to rush through shaving. He absolutely does not nick himself in his haste. 

Rounding the corner, Jaskier is met with a mouthwatering sight. Splayed across the bed, Geralt is stroking himself, unhurried and loose. His still wet hair falls in silver waves across the stacked up pillows, a deep flush to his chest under the salt-and-pepper chest hair. Hearing him approach, Geralt’s eyes open, black pupils nearly swallowing his bright irises. A sly smirk tilts his lips slightly. If Jaskier had gone soft while shaving, his blood rushes straight back to his groin at the sight, dizzyingly fast.

“Now that is deeply unfair,” Jaskier announces.

A hum rolls through Geralt, and he says, “How can I make it up to you?” His hand still strokes up and down, though Jaskier can see he’s having trouble keeping up his lackadaisical pace, the tendons of his hand twitching with the need to grip harder.

“Let me suck you off.”

A small gust of air escapes the older man and his hand stutters, stopping, and he nods.

Jaskier slides onto the bed, his fingers trailing lightly up those strong legs, bracketing Geralt’s hips as he leans down and swirls his tongue over the head of his erection, tasting that salty precome. Geralt lets out a low growl of pleasure, his hips twitching. Jaskier teases him like that, pulling out groans and gasps and shivers from the man under him, his tongue laving over the soft, firm, _hot_ skin. It doesn’t last, though, as Geralt’s fingers twist into Jaskier’s hair, half asking and half demanding as he rocks higher, craving more. He gives into the wordless plea and engulfs Geralt’s cock, taking as much as he can without choking, his hand taking the rest. Slowly he bobs, pressing his tongue against the thickness in his mouth, tasting and pleasuring. Jaskier hopes his hand isn’t too rough.

It isn’t long before Geralt gets more insistent. He ruts into Jaskier’s mouth, the fingers in his hair tightening, the mild pain making Jaskier moan around Geralt’s dick. The vibration makes the other man _moan_ , louder than Jaskier has heard before, and his hips buck at the sensation. Jaskier lets Geralt set the pace, faster and faster, losing their rhythm, and he reaches down to palm Geralt’s balls, squeezing and pulling gently, earning grunts of pleasure.

“Fuck, Jaskier, I’m close,” Geralt growls, reluctantly loosening his grip on Jaskier’s hair, but Jaskier just grasps his cock again and sucks him with enthusiasm, relishing the sounds Geralt makes, the way he can’t help clutching Jaskier’s hair, the twitch in his thighs. With a few more clumsy, quick thrusts Geralt is coming, spilling bitter and salty in Jaskier’s mouth, groaning with relief. Jaskier swallows with a wince and pulls off, wiping his mouth.

Geralt tugs Jaskier up the bed, and he obliges with a smile, laying half on top of Geralt’s body and capturing his lips in a deep, messy kiss. His thigh brushes against Geralt’s groin and the man pulls back with a nearly pained hiss.

“Whoops, sorry,” Jaskier grins, settling into the crook of Geralt’s arm. His own need is still very present, but it can wait a moment. He is more than content lying here, with Geralt’s arm loose around him, his rough fingers stroking his side. Jaskier is still a little shocked that Geralt is with him, but here he is, warm and solid under him.

Eventually Geralt’s free hands reaches out and lightly pulls at Jaskier’s wrist, extending his arm and twisting it to reveal the softer, paler underside. Jaskier watches his fingers trace up his muscles, drawing a line of sparks under his skin, to the scars at his elbow.

“You were okay?” he asks, thumb skimming the old, but still dark, marks.

He’s never touched his scars before, and Jaskier can’t place the strange, jumbled feelings it conjures. It’s like shining a flashlight on something that he feels should be kept in a dark corner and ignored, and he wants to pull away, but, determined, he just clenches his fist and keeps his arm in place.

“Not really. You saw my depressing work of art over there,” he jerks his head to the bottle-laden table behind them, “And I… had an old friend over, or who I was hoping was a friend. Turns out she’s still way too deep into it all.”

Geralt hums, his hand now working to pry Jaskier’s fingers apart so he can twine theirs together. “Tell me about it,” he asks, serious, but kind, concern in his eyes. He’d feared Geralt would judge him, or maybe be jealous, but this lets Jaskier breathe a sigh of relief. He gives Geralt a full retelling of what happened with Katrina, not that there’s much to tell, but he feels a weight on his shoulders nonetheless.

“So when she got angry at me for trying to help and stormed off, I just… I was already buzzed and I felt awful and it was so easy and-“

“I’m proud of you,” Geralt says, interrupting the anxious words spewing from Jaskier’s mouth.

“W-what?” Suddenly his heart jumps into his throat and he’s breathless.

“You turned it down. That must’ve been hard, harder than I know,” Geralt bends a little, bringing Jaskier’s arm up to kiss his scars. A sob rips out of his chest, involuntary and raw, and he feels Geralt hold him close.

Jaskier had been told something like this before, but from a therapist. Never from someone he loved, not once. He feels like Geralt’s lanced an infected wound in him, and all he can do is sob, anchored by those arms around him. How long has he wanted someone to say that? Even just to say that they’re proud of him. Such simple words he’s never heard, until now.

“Fuck, I love you,” he chokes out, “You are never getting rid of me again.” He laughs through his hitching breaths, and hears Geralt chuckle too.

“Good.”

***

The next morning, before sunrise, Jaskier gathers his things, mostly left right where he’d dumped them when he arrived. From his bag, Geralt pulls out his old denim jacket, which Jaskier had left behind. He hadn’t felt like it was his to take, but he slips it on now with a fond smile. They check out, and Jaskier hesitantly takes the spare bike helmet Geralt hands him.

“You sure it’s safe? I won’t, like, fall off or something? I’m not gonna eat a bug?”

Geralt laughs. “You won’t eat a bug unless you flip that visor up. And if you don’t let go, you’ll be fine. Just hold on to me,” he kisses Jaskier sweetly, and Jaskier smirks against his lips, “I’ll keep you safe.”

The drive home feels like it takes ages, and, having never been on a motorcycle before, especially not for seven hours, Jaskier is _sore_. It was amazing at first, clinging to Geralt’s broad, leather-clad back - the mix of his distinct smell and leather was something he needed to explore at a later date - and watching everything whiz by. He now swears he knows how it feels to be bowlegged, he proclaims at one rest stop, wobbling around like a dramatic cowboy. Geralt just watches him, amused.

The sun is low by the time they pull up the long, dusty drive. They both ache, and Jaskier can’t help the sigh of relief that comes when he sees that little ranch house and the stable. When they stop, Jaskier fumbles to take his helmet off but still hears the front door slam shut.

“Jaskier!” Ciri yells his name, sprinting straight at him and tackling him in a tiny bear hug. He could’ve fallen over if it weren’t for Geralt catching them both. “I’m so happy you’re back!” She says through tears, and Jaskier hugs her tight.

“So am I, kiddo,” he says, and looks up at Geralt.

Those golden eyes shine with happiness and a small, lopsided smile makes Jaskier feel so damn lucky. They still need work, sure, but Jaskier is so full of hope he could burst. He can’t remember a time when he felt this happy. He beams at Geralt, who gives his a brief kiss, and says,

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so, I very sincerely hope you enjoyed that. Endings are hard, and I’ll be honest, I haven’t finished a multi-chaptered thing in probably close to a decade. But please do tell me what you think, and I would Love some critiques if you’ve got ‘em!!
> 
> Before writing this and posting it, I’d pretty much given up on writing altogether. But all of your support, especially you amazing commenters and those of you who kept coming back to comment, has given me so much more hope and confidence, even for this ridiculous, cliche-ridden piece of work. You really helped turn the start of my year from awful to amazing. Thank you, thank you so much!
> 
> I plan to write more for these two in some time, including some more AUs and some one-shots in universe, I think, so if you like what I do, keep an eye out for that!
> 
> You can find me as @hugatiefling on both insta and Twitter, and I’m debating reviving my dusty tumblr again, who knows! 
> 
> Edit: I definitely revived my tumblr, go find me there if you like! Also, thanks so much to LovelyRita1967 for pointing out all the typos!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! You can find me on tumblr @patchworkgargoyle and twitter as @hugatiefling too!


End file.
